I'm one week into the mountains. Around write about "My days with clonazepam" and some brief reflections on an interview with Rodrigo Fresán, a breakthrough that: the writer before the writer must be a human being attentive to the human being is another. Then: Ezra Pound was a fucking nazi and Bioy and Borges old oligarchic linings. Strawberry is an asshole. See you next week. Curse them cheerfully.
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