The child says “put the computer’s role” to open the word processor: it is in the lettering phase. Paper. And I'm also writing like this, as I have the paper in front of me: I have a screen in myself, and I have no idea how what I'm doing on the keyboard gets so exactly to the target of the screen. I know less how the writing will reach a computer that is in another country and how they will be able to manipulate it to insert it into a magazine. Probably until it's time to print, I wouldn't understand anything (again) in case they explain to me.

When I've been told it's a scarlet in the doctor, after doing a couple of tests, I've gone to the pharmacy as to buy a chorizo (well, the chorizo's one would also come up to someone sometime). It's a group A strep, almost missing. How have you seen it? And even though you've explained to me, I struggle to imagine how you saw these little things, how a drug was invented to fight them, how that drug works.

I'm surrounded by materials for individual mythology, objects and inventions that I don't know where and how they've come from. They make my life easier, they save me, they buy me. And you can criticize one at a time how each one of them has alienated me, but in the difficult moments when you're going to spend this Christmas, I can be with you, by the side, whispering love to the ear a hundred kilometers away. The child has pressed the button on the screen and everything has disappeared: “magic,” he said. It meant science.