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THE POST—NUCLEAR ONES

Emecé, Buenos Aires - 2011

One. I’m going to stop lying. I’m going to stop smoking. I’m going to stop being afraid of the dark. Two. I’m never going to make mistakes again just because it’s night time or it’s cold or there’s a melancholy cloud over my head. Three. I have to stop wasting time. When I get home I’m going to start writing. I’m not going to answer the phone or eat the leftovers from my fridge or read all those books waiting on my bedside table like skyscrapers. Four. I’m thirty tomorrow. Instead of having a party I’m going to get in the bath and read my old diaries. How old are you when youth ends? Five. I can’t hear my heart under the water. I could die now and I’d never know. If I die I want to be cremated and my ashes scattered in the sea or the river or flushed down the toilet. I’d rather be dead under water than dead under ground. Six. I have to learn to breathe better. I’d like the air to leave me without my realising, as if I were a mermaid at the bottom of a bath tub.