Every Book In The World

They Could Read Him, They Could Study Him, They Could Pick Him Apart, But They Couldn't Laugh Or Be Sad With Him.

Of All The Islands He'd Visited, Two Stood Out. The Island Of The Past, He Said, Where The Only Time Was Past Time And The Inhabitants Were Bored And More Or Less Happy, But Where The Weight Of Illusion Was So Great That The Island Sank A Little Deeper Into The River Every Day. And The Island Of The Future, Where The Only Time Was The Future, And The Inhabitants Were Planners And Strivers, Such Strivers, Said Ulises, That They Were Likely To End Up Devouring One Another.

It's Strange How Things Happen, Mauricio Silva, Known As The Eye, Always Tried To Escape From Violence Even At The Risk Of Being Considered A Coward, But The Violence, The Real Violence, Can't Be Escaped, At Least Not By Us, Born In Latin America In The 1950s, Those Of Us Who Were Around Twenty Years Old When Salvador Allende Died.

When I Was Done Traveling, I Returned Convinced Of One Thing: We're Nothing.

In The Current Socio-political Climate, He Said To Himself, Committing Suicide Is Absurd And Redundant. Better To Become An Undercover Poet.