Monday. December ends. I’m sitting down to write tomorrow’s article. I can’t think of anything. The same thing for over 40 years, when I started in this slavery of the chronicle. So I didn’t know it was impossible. Afterwards, I didn’t have the will to leave him. The blank page and blue pen sit next to me, without any complaint. We must write by hand, because the pen extends the thought to the paper, which collects it with respect and style, the style of the eraser, which we will miss later. The computer must clean it and send the article to the newspaper without modifications or deletions, which are also the article, but are less interesting…
About The Author
