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I want another coffee but there’s no milk. I keep reading, the weather makes you lazy, nothing has exploded, my dog sleeps calmly after a restless night and I leave home in pajamas and visit my grandmother in the house next door. I’ll open her fridge, I’ll serve myself some milk and talk to her. It’s 1:27. The rain is thinner and thinner, more transparent, incomprehensible. My grandmother and I talk about the corruption cases of this Spain in crisis, Catalan Independence, the political shows on the radio. She’s 87, she’s a pillar of lucidity.
I sneeze, it’s cold, my pajamas are blue.

Traviesa, 2013