Again, on the street, a woman said to me: “Forgive boy.” He asked me a question, and as I started answering, I realized that I had just discovered that I was not “so small.” After explaining where Prim Street was, he thanked me, but the final was a lapidary, a series of uncomfortable phrases that started with a “and forgives to say child”.

When I was young, I was a kid full of contradictions for many years. I wanted to be a boy (as a concept), but when others identified him as a boy, I shouted “I am a girl!” He who wanted to give the little one, but without going through the filters of others, without anyone telling him anything, without permission. As Angel Erro's poem says, mutilated Neska.

And as that woman asked me for forgiveness over and over again, I felt this contradictory sense of childhood. That orphaned feeling of a mutilated girl, that sad feeling that you live in such a bad genre that you shame others. But this time it was only a second, when I saw my reflex in a window, it smoked at the same time that I saw a girl mutilated and reformed.