Sublime

Invidia ceu fulmine summa vaporant.

see everything as if he were Dante and he’d just returned from hell, or not Dante, I mean, but Virgil himself, such a sensitive boy,

fascists.

“El alma es literatura | y todo acaba en nada y verso”

pleasure

as if in Paris, or so I thought, everything happened around some street or place and never on a specific street or in a specific place, and this was because, as I later discovered, Manuel had never been to the City of Light, and neither had mi general,

ephemeral

tribulation,