matinada lathe, Mirant Soroll not quan fer amb I lock the keys to the portal. The hall is in darkness and moves to groping, gently open the kitchen door where the window closed evil seeps, shy, lluor the distant moon. If I silence and not say anything. I need a sheet to write all these months I've seen.
I encountered, before the courts of the new wonders of the island, with an old process, since llardós entered into the quagmire of committees under hand.
I've seen "Felix Millet" of publishing, or métier of publishing for many fishing-him the manuscript of a precious author, with the lure of a prize, a small publisher that had for years and waiting for the fly-while loosening announced every year in its catalog as "Proximas Novedades.
I read as the head of a publishing label "indie" much-valued their work and meager resources, from the pages of a Satin "glamorous" high-flying luxury magazine.
I hallucinating during the presentation of a book, watching the spectacle of a former threatening cries the author, the former husband, bursting with him if he was signing the act about the separation of roles and how they were seeking witnesses among the sixty of people looking on astonished.
I consoled a publisher numerets tired and overtaken by a young author who will mount and show-off promotional tour of the country pedantic.
I listened as a professor of ethics he tried did goings on invoices for the purchase of books.
I saw the anger in the eyes of a new arrest, dispatched only after you have done all the hard work of preparing the campaign of St. George, when you look at the picture in the newspapers showing the sale of its former chief half of the business empire Planetarium while disguised as a great success with a smile.
quedarme again I think a little longer here.
Dedicated to Carmen. Encouragement.
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