He was born close to Río de la Plata. He draw, painted, took pictures; he grilled beef, pork, not fish. He lied.
Professor at four universities, researcher, not a pilot. He wanted to be a pilot and he still wants to. He showed a di culty to be part of and a facility to walk on the edge.
He had dogs. He had vertigo. He lost arguments and umbrellas. He has lost every street ght in the last 25 years.
He won little and nothing at all. He worked less. He looked out of the window and had a little whisky with no ice in a tequila glass.
He stopped smoking sorrowfully and with nostalgia of an ox. He misses smoking. He misses the wind of the river and climbing to a plane that goes anywhere. He misses smoking on the plane, smoking in a bar, in the morning while he prepares mate. He misses smoking.
He loves Czech pencils, German pens, Finnish watches, red shoes, red glasses, his touch screen cell phone, looking at the maps, talking too much, listening too little. He was forced to argue with wait
