Mario Benedetti

Twice I was with live and loved captivated me, I won, I won for ever. Sitting in his rocking chair he took me hand, incorporated and me repeatedly, kissed tenderly, with such sincerity that only two men can kiss. All his obsession was to have news of her granddaughter back in Spain, of how life had him gone since it broke away from the disgusting butcher, of how it was their job, who were his friends, how was your inquiry, if had already approved their gynecologist, of the color of your car title, how was your House with a plumbate obsession with the length of the facade of the home of her granddaughter in Spainsomething like that as if you encrypted the well-being of his bold in the meters of width that occupy your home. I was that you would write him, on my return, and he would send the story of photos I did but our capitalist rush, our Western emergencies being so bad with the Caribbean tranquility did not give me time to fulfill my promise. Today his granddaughter has called me and told me with voice Clara: live is dead.