He doesn't realize that everybody already knows that his birthday is the 30th of February. Here come the communiques, and a postscript that I found thrown away here. Now the only thing left to do is wait and see who can weather the 730 days that separate us from Paradise. I wish you good heath, and hope that they don't put Mejma Barsn in the government team for the dialogue in San Andris. Towards the West, the Moon lowers itself down between the parted legs of two mountains and rests its cheeks on their belly, where the river stirs up its sex, dripping a serpentine rumor.
Some excited clouds stroke the trees with their moisture.
In the East, there's lightening and tremors, the crickets piped up with their alarms, and now only a few scattered stars will be surprised by the storm that announces itself to the South. The watchful airplane purrs its threat and recedes into the distance. Another daybreak of waiting and tobacco. A glow-worm is shining on Durito's shoulder. Through the smoke of his pipe, I observe and guard the last and greatest righter of wrongs, the famous knight for whose security I pass a watchful night, and for whom I keep myself alert and ready in case . . .