My dear:

Butterflies take to the air rather agitatedly in this soft perpetual place where I am and which happens to be autumn disguised as spring. The unstoppable and somewhat nostalgic flutter of its wings reminds me I owe you five glasses of Vermouth, two smiles, a wink and one or two nights of pleasure and unequivocal pleasure. It also reminds me, honey, that you owe me several songs by Armando Manzanero, one or two by Ana Gabriel and, above all, dearly beloved, And the Clock Struck Ten by Joaquín Sabina.



Those butterflies that for a long time have known the end of this slightly crystallised sky that covers us, also remind me that not long ago we decided to leave our most unnoticed and individual inner deaths in...