After several days of deep domestic cleaning, I have carried out this non-exhaustive compilation of conclusions to which I have come:

I still have a lot to do.

I'm not willing to give up my books that have been accumulating for years, but I'm willing to give up a lot of papers and pages and notes, clearing them up with less and less regret as the hours and days go by. When I was done, I was more willing to give up my books, at least a small percentage of them, if most of them were no longer in the boxes and I was depressed.

After taking a quick look at those papers, pages and notes, it's clear that I'm not going to be able to get much back from it. There is, for example, no reusable material that can spare me from the need to do this writing. However, pending a more thorough examination or a more serious need, I have chosen the most salvadorable one, with three folders full of packages.

The ideology of all newspapers is also boiling. The old news – I found it until 1997 in a tall cabinet – still serves to clean the windows’ crystals. Let me be forgiven by the columnists who are no longer among us, the famous must-have and the illegalized or failed journalists.

Having friends is a great thing. A friend is someone willing to say what you don't want to hear. In the present case: “Don’t fool yourself, that’s never going to be used in whore,” he will tell you.

Each object that is freed from throwing it out in the trash, while it's saved, is quietly calculated as the time it takes to save it. You know that it is only a delay. After cleaning, everything you have at home is provisional, all except what you have bought back since then, which is forever, of course.

That fashion, at least as a time meter, is not only, and perhaps not, above all, in the clothes, because I have been able to check how I found a small batch of old magazines for adults and a friend, with very juicy comments, has been able to date the photos accurately, taking into account characteristics or qualities other than clothing.

In relation to the previous point: the evolution of my erotic preferences and the availability and gratuitousness of this material (or very similar, or even better) – in this sense, it is terrible what I have been willing to pay, not only in money, but also in the shame that I went to the kiosk sellers in exchange for printed meat, or, how you look, how much sex has devalued us, does not prevent these magazines from pretending.

There's nothing that might seem more suspicious of a neighbor than seeing a neighbor come out several times a day from their droppings. If he is given or given the opportunity, he gets to speak and tries without concealing to bring the conversation to the question of his possible move, so desperately, that it is difficult for him to tell whether he asks him with hope or with displeasure, or simply for a human or natural interest in human nature.

On the way around the container, I am once again glad that I have not had anything pornographic, because I can imagine that the neighbour can gather more information to do anything, to explore it anywhere.

The result of the cleanliness, the great pleasure it provides to see everything ordered, has to do with the time it takes without having been cleaned, to the point of believing that the rude people are only hedonists of great patience.