On/From Debris/Des(de) Los Escombros

I’m young. Well not so young (at my age my grandmother, my mother had done.. had..). Still I consider myself young. I try to imagine myself in four of five years time. The image is blurry, changing, confused. I talk over and over again to my (still) young friends, obsessing over progress…. to where ? Because things should get better shouldn’t they ? That’s what they taught me. The milkmaid dropping her milk pail in the children’s story hurts me.

Friday in Spanish, Saturday in English.