Dear Ada:
been almost months without seeing each other. I sometimes wonder about you even if you never call. Ada, you represent all the outside world. And intimate. And himself. I do not know if you noticed how this winter is unlike any other winter. Not southern winters. This winter reminds roofs in London. That invisible rain falls but soaks, forget the gloves in a chair in the consulate, storm warnings, wind at night, the evening wind, but mostly windy nights. I do not know if you remember those nights counted in the blue notebook. Today it has become at once the strength of those days only a smell. A jar of essential oils stored in a box of men's shoes. It was to be there and to return at once to see that there are those who doubt everything, and do not believe. While they move around the house. The sweep, the scent, fill it with bread and newspapers. I appreciate the sound of footsteps in the hallway. I appreciate the light under the door. That's why I write, Ada, representing everything that is not in here but is, in all life is moving out. For example, she approached with a cup in hand to tell who has dreamed of a spaceship. Or is he in the kitchen near the window using a glass of water to the light. Suddenly, someone speaks of body heat. I write, Ada, also because you are the symbol of that heat must and all sites that are not.
