An empty jar of nuts sits on my desk. Everyday. It just sits there.
I edit, talk, drink too much water and wonder about all those long nights in Madrid,
how the cold wind took over the city and how those tall and cheap drinks made me happy.
I wonder about those tiny lonely streets filled with drunks and sad puppy eyes,
how I used to examine closely every tiny crack on the sidewalk before I got to calle Toledo.
To my cave. My place. The house of loud laughter.
I wonder if that bartender in Malasañas remembers I owe him 6 euros.
I still don't know how I lost my wallet that night. My crazy weekend. The last weekend.
I wonder where's my John Lennon tshirt and how it's holding up.
I still visit that apartment in my mind, every single time '1979' plays my mouth taste like calimocho.
Every single time I listen to Fito Páez's 'La casa desaparecida' the room smells like costo.
I really wonder about that pretty petite girl I kissed in Lavapies.
Does she have pretty petite children? Does she still smoke Fortunas 25?
Does she ever wonder about Jorgito in his hot and tiny island?
I put down my ugly coffee mug, stare at my screen and stop wondering for a while.
I need to get back to editing.
Oh to wonder and daydream.
It's a crazy & nasty job, but someone has to do it. Right?