I only know that I know nothing. And there saying I go things out of the jar. I am fearless and even sometimes impertinent. I am denying myself and in the office of punishing myself I splash to the sides. I feel like a real loser; not like someone who calls himself such and fixes on the lost his aesthetics, his ethics, his contraband. I do not win with my failure nor can I write if I am drunk. I am not Bukowski, nor Baudelaire. I get close to these absurd corners where I publish my trifles and in my cowardice of nobody I make myself the compadrito. But don't believe me a chia seed. I am first and foremost a man who sings in the shower and when the bullets whistle flees for another war