I forgot to say that yesterday this notebook came in useful for turning off the light. I stretched out my arm but couldn’t reach the switch, and yet thanks to the notebook’s solidarity we managed it together, in a true bilateral partnership. As you can see, the notebook, reproduced and widely distributed, could serve as political discourse. And thrown at the right moment it could be an anarchist gesture.

My father is a private person. I find talking to him quite tough. He can be difficult to approach, and he doesn’t like to open up. His younger brother is seriously ill, and it looks like he won’t live much longer. A horrible shock. My brother phoned; he said our cousin had called him to pass on the news. He sent me on ahead, like when we were children, to test the waters. I called just now. ‘How are you?’ I asked. After I’d put the same question to him several times, he answered: ‘Oh, fine, love, just working as usual. Nothing to report, except my brother Ricardo’s not doing so well, so why don’t you tell me about your day?’ Talking to him reminded me of his illegible handwriting.

Tania is having relationship problems: ‘It’s a mess. And you know what? The cold doesn’t help. I don’t think we’ll last much longer. Plus, I’m sure the weather has a lot to do with it. Always, with everything. I bet if we were at the beach we wouldn’t be arguing so much. Plus, if we were at the beach, instead of fighting we’d have made a ceviche or maybe sat on the porch and played cards. Have you seen that? Doesn’t it look tempting? A couple in flip-flops, chatting away on plastic chairs outside their house, the hundred-watt bulb, the bag of water hung up to scare off the flies. That’s how my life would be if I lived by the beach. Today I’d have said to him, “Give me a hand moving the hammock,” instead of hanging up on him. I don’t remember where I heard that things have a tendency to end in winter. Statistics, percentages that prove things end more often in winter than in summer. And we all think we’re different, but we’re part of the statistics. Even though no one wants to be part of the statistics.’

Maybe the winter, the cold, the leaves on the ground, are related to the end. Like a leaf clings to the tree. But please don’t let it end, Jonás. With your kiss my life begins.