We took the last bath in the Cantabrian. We never recognise ourselves as the last, although we know that they are going to be long and warm days, that the summer is not over, that we will be able to submerge in early autumn, we say so, but we know that it is the last, that work, entry, concerns, children’s problems are going to devour us. So the latter, like the others, is almost a bathroom between the others.

However, we had a good time for several weeks, it is clear. In the Basque Country yes, but on beaches of all kinds, in some coastal villages that have the grace of being anywhere. So everywhere, we've enjoyed the luxury of being, let's confess. I say "anybody," as I can say, "the citizen of the world," because being somewhere in the head of everything leads only to scruples, as all well worth in the world. After all, to savor what we fought was as pleasurable as a mortal sin. It was sweet. Yes, truly beautiful, that peace, that drop, that point of futism of what will be done the next day, that lack of modesty. That is being a citizen of the world, not a Basque. Spend the money while it is, blow everything beyond the periphery of the xillary itself, cast an idle glance at events. Like everyone, with black goggles from morning to night, we watch events through the screens of smartphones, sharing ours more with those in the networks than with the one in front. After all, renunciation is simple, tender, sweet. I didn't find anything apocalyptic.

At this distance everything has a different color, everything is insignificant. The secrets of Benalla aroused us as much as the meticulous television series, the fact that Macron enjoyed France only three days as a football champion caused us a cynical laughter, the later abandonment of the plan to combat poverty hardly bothered us, it did not seem so shocking to us that the state that has created a crime of solidarity demanded other European countries to receive them. We just knew that Sentsov was a zaguán on the threshold of certain death. We have barely realized that in Iparralde some voices, anonymous or assumed, have begun to rise to denounce the deficiencies of the Abertzale project, tired of observing the discourse that has been flung up for years and that it once comes, or that the Basque School is nothing more than a dreamed canvas. In fact, it is difficult to design the following in the absence of the nationalist parties, from the summer clumsy we can doubt their capacity, their legitimacy, beyond the years of naughty journey: at present it is not enough – perhaps a bad taste – to exaggerate to the four winds that the North has made unacceptable contributions and progress, with the truth sinking in the eyes. Today, however, the monopoly on the Basque issue is held by Etxegarai, why spend it?

When I was in salt water, I remembered that we had to go back to daily life, that one more course was forced to reflect, to take action, which was the height of a three- or four-week indifference. Or the other way around, maybe? Suddenly, behind my back to the sea, I was invaded by a gigantic wave. In my mother's womb, less willing than to offer amniotic happiness, she pulled me out of a tug, turned around, threw herself on the surface of the sea, shook me with her legs and mushed me properly and threw me into the water. And he left me like a ruined traveler turning to himself and not like a return to the world.