Because it always changes something more than exhaustion,” I said at some point to José Luis, and to a friend who laughs at my practical materialism – I do it with an attachment to his mysticism – I asked him what he understood with the phrase. I'm not going to put what he said to me, it's a topic. I know people who believe in many things, even in God; another in the universe, and so they did to me with words like the cosmos, that miss my language as soon as I hear it. All of this I say because I have realised that the world is the largest unit I use and I have the feeling that I have committed some negligence in that case. I'm not able to think about the universe, at most now to talk about the garbage, which is falling on us, and the garbage makes the world everything it touches. It's ours.

I've come back to work this week, after two weeks, and when I get up with reality, it starts to overwhelm me, it takes a big dose of fiction to make sense of this everyday activity, to believe that theater makes sense for me as well. The world starts to be very fast. And the reality of what sits next to him suffers the weight of the oscillations of tiredness, not being able to rise one minute after another from the table, thinking perhaps today perhaps “thank you”, because he needed some superficial words, there are always themes, but tomorrow perhaps with the conviction that if the presence lasts longer months I will lose control – and the weekend comes. And because of the radio's listening helmets, I get the latest data from the Libyan story, which is already searching for narratives, because the post-victory bombings don't give a subjection to the middle class that we just want that.

In Libya, our world lives longer than yours, and perhaps our fears should be there, at the time when they point us to so many; to the coins that they steal, when they cannot take me more than twenty euros; to steal the whole bag, because I don't have an expensive iPhone, like an old courtship... Last week they entered the difficult second-hand car, which was already from the mother, and took the hand cream and toilet paper, slept and smoked cigarettes. Nothing else. Who then is the fear of the thief?

And through a world that is not tailor-made for me, and surrounded by words that I doubt can change anything (what story saves any European from the massacre in Libya? ) Because of the feeling of being building the lives of others, lost in the improvisation of my relationships, if I want to move away, I read, the lie usually, that brings me closer, because they order the truths, making me measure, and above all because it is a terrain in which I find some complicit from time to time; because it distances me and approaches me before I choke. And that, as trash, is the world, ours, that will disappear with us. The world, my head, would no longer be bearable without those fictions, all those lies about the world, the individual kits, accessible to one brain, and not because they give me away, but because they make it possible for me to be, increasingly through understanding, or excited by the next question. Perhaps literature is no longer an exercise in cynicism. Or maybe such a lie actually makes me absolutely incapable.