I befriend a fox. I give her a name. I cannot remember it. I skin her for fur and repent -- I weep. I give her to Mother to mount, but I tell her nothing: she cannot know I have killed, at least in part, for pleasure.
Peruvian sketch comedy spoofs terrorism before the government comes clean about it. A boy -- a brother of mine -- finds a scrap of the story on his tongue while diving in a lake.
We are drunk. M. Villa's party takes place at a library. I slouch -- then, a view from above. Every man has a red couch for himself. Some of them sip quietly. Nobody says a thing; we are to leave soon. We look at paintings. "Is this L. Gullo?" somebody asks. It is. I am proud, though I know him only through his art.
A race through the lake in the early morn. My love is partaking. I watch. People I know are there, but I cannot remember them. They set off and I turn my back. When it is done, somebody asks me, "Have you seen him?" I do not bother to look over. "He must be over there," I say. He has burdened his pockets with stones.
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