This book of mine, which took so long to be made public, is coming out today to take its first steps so that you, the reader, can get to know me a little.

Conveying feelings is difficult, sometimes it is possible to do it with paint, with music and other times with words. Perhaps it is too pretentious on my part to say that this inner cry is a way of demonstrating a state of mind of some concern in the face of things that happen to us and that sometimes have no answer:

“The truth is tattooed on the old manuscript of life… Doubt, sublime doubt, you are the guest just like death. You are always present. Sometimes I miss you if you do not conjugate. You are like the rouge on my pale lips. You have a certain taste nothing definite but necessary.”