I would describe myself as a tricky reader since i was eight years old when I read by parts (and skipping the parentheses and italics) biographies of Gandhi and Marco Polo.

Then, at some point I am unaware, I began to write. A chronicle of the passion of soccer at school, some kidnapped poems of Neruda and reformulated to offer to Johana were my first contributions, let´s say jumps into the air.

Since then I have deteriorated a lot, but every time I write more (¿or less?). I've studied a lot and become quite awkward and unrealistic.

The desert from where i´m singing from is full of shadows and twilights of Aconcagua Valley and dirty streets with hundreds of thieves and smoke from the south of Bogotá City. My papers are suffering a disorder that doesn´t have a name. Confusion, forgetfulness or indifference at best. I´m seeking for a job that nobody has and nobody gives; a place that does not exist, disappeared in time.

I write for the unknown. Just have a few very-good friends to which, from time to time, I encourage to send something: a suicidal statement, a political manifesto, a typical recipe. I watch too much TV and I like the fat, flour, alcohol, although no longer stand it, the herbs, especially the herbs.

Now I try to publish some attempts of poems that i´ve broght on my back. It hurts the whole body and i´m taking homeopathic drops to prevent migraines.

It was a pleasure, not knowing you.