And then you have to get to the (h)row. If I understood correctly, summer holidays, August, holiday parties, etc. Ana has ironically referred to the “tranquility” – or “normality”, to use the fashionable term – of the local festivities. Iñaki Azkuna has become the main candidate for the leadership of the Basque mccarthysmo this summer. The Cecilantro and Cecilantro have been the last victims of this witch hunt. Well, it's probably not the wisest thing to be bragging about the margins from day one. Let's go another way. We know that subsidies in the Basque press have fallen – in some cases by 69% – in the early summer. My insides flip when I take the AP-1 by car from Malika to Arrasate. A phantom highway, in no way, conditioned by endless tunnels. Hey, dude, didn't we just stick around so we wouldn't mess with this? In addition, you can be considered a corporatist and a fat donor, since Xabier Letona has made almost the only public complaint about subsidies. Having mentioned the issue of terraces, Ana could write about the controversy that has arisen in San Sebastián due to the ongoing proposal to increase the number of terraces in the Old Town. Probably more to lose than to win.
I'm talking about T. I'm talking about S. Eliot is mentioned by Joseph Luis, and this is my salvation. José Luis mentions the beginning of The Waste Land, one of Eliot’s most famous poems, “April is the cruellest month”, and it would be good to remember that part of this poem was translated by Joseba Sarrionandia to Oh Euzkadi! for the eleventh edition of the magazine, in August 1981 (when and in August! ). “April is the cruelest month, dead/lilac land growing, memory and desire/mixing, turbid roots/affecting with spring rains.” José Luis said that August is the dumbest month. Forgetting the memory, the desire prevailing, the undulating roots suffering the footsteps of the Sundays. But before you know it, we're in September, and what's in September? Like my late grandmother used to say, football and chestnuts in September. A good time to bring the Real to the (h)row. Once again in the first level, etcétera, on the eve of winter, etcétera, etcétera.

Finally, I seemed to have managed to keep everything well connected; a text full of multitudes, without bitter and resinous phrases, even Real in some way brought to texture. But that I was about to send the column of so much sweat cost to the Light, the ETA document. The hell with it. They seem to be acting like me, too. There's a truce. I'm talking about Edo. A permanent ceasefire. I'm talking about Edo. Cease armed acts of aggression. Or, quite simply. Sefini la patat, it's over, we're leaving.