March is here with mild wind that suddenly cools in the evening and spreading flowering mimosa yellow flakes on the lawn. An orange cat looks through the bars, as if asking permission to enter. Always doing the same and before you answer already been put in; also tell you that good, now go, but this afternoon I can not even see you. I like little cats, especially in the dark, when behind a lamp appear to us green or gray eyes, beautiful, cold and mysterious as those of the legend Becquer, and stand still, looking inward, until they get to give us a thrill and change course. Morning is different, everything is different under the clear light of sun and sky. Then there are the shapes and colors, can be left raises the blinds and doors open, you do not hear the dripping of a leaky faucet or the sullen hum of palm trees, the cats become cautious and finally get rid of this absurd nightmare in which a stranger is behind us and we can not run, or have been on the streets without shoes and did not find the way back home. * * *
Walk back and forth nervously, trying to organize the next few months of that strange and anarchic times of the candidate in a few hours light can save all the others, obtuse and empty. At the end I get on a high shelf to see the blooming almond, strawberry and cream hair, the house next door. I sit up there, looking around, brick, clouds, earth, almond. And I think that I would not consider writers, but read and be writer, to see things and name them and we want to know more, and especially trying to get my Readers also see, the named, wanted. I opened the thick book that accompanies me, Road of Miguel Delibes , a beautiful facsimile edition of manuscript, full of words crossed out and added notes in the margins. But the first sentence intact, perfect to start or close any novel, accurate to love this March morning despite the doubts, the cats, the schedule: " Things could have happened otherwise, and without however, occurred well [...] " .
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