The title at the top of the page read:
“A veces estoy tan solo que tiene sentido,” he said aloud, rolling the Spanish like a loose coin on his tongue. Sometimes I am so lonely it makes sense. The title at the top of the page
“See?” he mumbled to the empty room. “Even the pests give up.” “Even the pests give up
At 5:00 a.m., he sat back down at the typewriter. He pulled out the half-finished poem and crumpled it. Then he put in a fresh sheet. The paper was yellowed, soft with age, like a dead man’s skin. He rolled it into place. He stared at the blank space. The paper was yellowed, soft with age, like
He looked at the typewriter. The carriage was stuck. A half-finished poem sat in the roller. It was called “PDF I.” He didn’t know what PDF meant. Portable Document Format? That was too clean. Too corporate. For Henry, it meant Puta, Dios, y Fútbol. Whore, God, and Soccer. Three things that had never saved a single soul.