Sir! Madam! Overdoing the hikikomori? Sick of being cooped up indoors reading? Tired of the British police mistaking your cane for a samurai sword? Have you lost faith in the Oxford oracle? Overworked your writing in your creative writing workshop? Do you write novels you think are shit, compose prose you think is crap? How many balls of paper do you throw in the bin without managing a single line? Then it’s time to buy an ideal notebook! To hell with Second World War novels, sir; to the devil with historical fiction, madam; forget all those stories about middle-aged European men. Plots come and go, action is secondary. The voice is what matters. Listen to your voice, however it sounds. Practise in the bathroom. Jump up and down a bit first. A-E-I-O-U. Practise in your notebook. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Do it again, only this time with your words. One word after another. You don’t need to move from your kitchen, all you need is a chair and a table. In fact, you only need the notebook. Dare to pick up that pen.

This afternoon I saw the dwarf in the distance, walking with his back to me and holding his miniature cane. That cane wouldn’t have been mistaken for a samurai sword. Maybe for some nunchucks.

Silence and distance, do they bring us closer to the people we love or take us further away?

At the market, I saw Pessoa in the distance. I remembered his phrase: ‘It is not love but love’s outskirts that are worth knowing’. Waiting is its outskirts; maybe that’s why it’s worth knowing.

The father of Ernesto, my ex-boyfriend, died when we were living together. I think his father’s death brought us closer. Why is your mother’s death pushing us apart, Jonás? Why such a long trip? In the apartment Ernesto and I shared, we had an electric oven where we made toast. Huddled around that little oven, we talked a lot about his father. Why aren’t you coming back? Why won’t you try talking about it?

Guillermo and I left the cantina at three in the morning. The chairs were upturned on the tables. We were drunk, we were the last people there. He walked back to my apartment with me. In the middle of the street, he started to dance something he called ‘The Glitter Dance’. With his two index fingers pointing upwards, Guillermo sang, ‘This is the glitter dance, ding-ding-ding-dang-dang-dang’. I couldn’t copy his moves because I was laughing too hard. We were both laughing, without really knowing why. Eventually I was laughing because he was laughing. Lying in bed with the lights off, I remembered and laughed some more. This morning he sent me a message: ‘I’m hungover, take me to the market for some tacos, ding-ding.’