The day of my birth, on May 12, 1978, began the countdown, which I do not know at what time of the future it will end. My mother, in fact, had only provided me with this faulty little stopwatch of flesh and bone. While I complete my autobiographical observation, for example, I have no choice but to look at one end of it to write something intelligible (it is so imperfect! ). ), recalling that the promise of death begun in my day of origin can be fulfilled at any time and, today at least, on paper.

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I started documenting for my autobiography on May 12, 1978.

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I met my parents on May 12, 1978. They, or a part of their 23 chromosomes, met in me about nine months earlier, a day or a night of August, probably at the Burlada festivities, in a real ethyl peak that, given that they were already married, gives my creation a point of teenager and irresponsible. I had been taken out of my mother's womb with a C-section. I've lived a long time believing that that gave me some kind of virginity. I remember very well the first day when 23 other people’s chromosomes started a foolish search on me – it was January 6 – but I am not going to say the year. I should calculate it.

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Rafael Gurrea, Amadeo Marco, Ramón Rubial, Adolfo Suárez, Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, Jimmy Carter, Leonid Ilich Brezhnev, Papa Montini, Aita Villasante, Janelle Commissiong and Mary Stävin were born under the command. Three of these 11 posts – until their writing, perhaps four after their publication – are now in the hands of women, 14,055 days later – until their writing.

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I was born on 12 May 1978, which I know, for the first time. Since then, I have done fewer and fewer things, as I know, for the first time. For example, I started learning Euskara for the second time at 17. My parents took me (but took me a year) on the rating page of the Basque nursery of Huarte is gathered that I knew a few words in Basque in the correct Andereño calligraphy, although – according to the report – not very clear, but that did happen to me in Basque and in Spanish. I no longer remember these few words. Yes, I remember once being punished for urinating on the patio tree, because I didn't know if I wanted to go to the toilet or because I was embarrassed to ask for it. Later, at an age I don't know how to specify, but I was once again a perpetual erdaldun, my mother took me to a psychologist worried not to say anything in public. I don't remember what they were going to do to me or what I was going to say in this consultation, because I didn't have to come back. However, I always have the impression that I speak with displeasure, whatever language I speak in.

**I was born towards the

end of a century weary of myself, in a territory with a problem of territorial identity of a continent tired of its history, within the morphological characteristics of a biological genus that begins to weaken. From then on, neither the new century, nor the fact that it made me feel Basque, nor the discouragement of being half unhappy, has freed me from being an accomplice at the end of the century, from a problematic nationality and from half a century of humanity. Sometimes write yes.