I love how anywhere can be boring.

How Rihanna and Kreayshawn travel.  Making my way through the Top 40 from 2011 right now.  Thanks, Lana Turner.

Yes, I'm on the other side of the world. Hot summer afternoon, the sun bashing against the glass and the curtains drawn against it.  Hot hot hot.  I say later: I'm going to the roof of this highrise to draw the cityscape.

Bolaño cita a Pascal para decir: Cuando considero la corta duración de mi vida, ... el pequeño espacio que ocupo y incluso que veo, abismado en la infinita inmensidad de los espacios que ignoro y que me ignoran, me espanto y me asombro de verme aquí y no allí.

This tiny block of cement risen up in the sky like a platform to look out at the city and the Andes beyond. And the Andes higher than that beyond that.

The hydrangeas are huge and pink or blue and it looks like New England.
The houses are low and wooden and perched on well-trimmed grassy hillsides; almost all of them are advertising the sale of something with road signs and it looks like Route 1 in Maine.
The cacti tower high above the dusty earth and it looks like Arizona.
The buildings are grey and dirty, dripping with something resembling water and innumerable and it looks like NYC.
The vineyards stretch off in the distance and it looks like North San Diego County.
The mountains are tan and hazy in the distance with tall spindly trees in the foreground and it looks like El Paso.
The small towns appear around a corner and the houses are bunched together in a little cluster and it looks like the Valle de Guadalupe.
The insides of the houses and bus terminals are made of varnished wood and it looks like ski chalets in the Alps.
The bathroom on the bus stinks and it smells like the one between Houston and Tampico.
There is laughing, talking, drinks clinking, the hum of people from the bar next door and it sounds like Calle Sexta in Tijuana.
The sidewalks around the downtown plazas are clean and marbled; the subterranean entrances to marble-walled museums have marbled steps and it looks like Washington, DC.
The rundown wholesale market is full of herbs, beans, toys and candy and it looks like Mexico City.
The thin dry leaves of the acacia trees resist the brutal heat and it looks like Tucson.
The Metro is full of seventies modernist details and typefaces and it looks like Monterrey.
The pine trees are tall and bushy and full and it looks like Colorado.
The tunnels are open except for beams that cross them and mesh wires to cover the gaps and it looks like Barcelona.
The eucalyptus trees grow like gangly teenagers and it looks like La Jolla.

A girl asks me if the U.S is going to invade Chile.  If there will be war between our countries.  I say no.

Un niño listening to reggaetón - while his sister sleeps - drinking apricot juice from a straw: I scribble this down on a sheet of paper quickly so as not to be seen.  Now I type it out on the screen for you to read wherever you happen to be.