“I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it to…” — Pablo Neruda

But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.

And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.

A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.