I feel like the little match girl.
It 's almost winter, cold, darkness fell. You breathe the air of Christmas already. People passing in the street and nobody buys my matches (books).
The window of a library next door is full of light and on a mound of fake snow, made with polystyrene balls, some volumes are arranged. I see comic books of Zelig, the players and announcers depressed, of motorcyclists. The books are placed in a semicircle in the center and leave a blank space. Then a bejeweled hand, from inside the window, carefully put fake snow on a recent book, right under the light a small reflector. I just have time to see a subtitle, something like Memoirs of an Escort, before directing the crowd en masse to the window and I stealing the last light of the street. I'm cold and amid the indifference of the people who do not see my matches (books) rag on my novel and 272 pages, on, give me comfort. Then the fire of the last page is turned off and leave me alone in the dark. Like the little match girl, I call my grandmother I never knew. Comes from the sky dark and damp, Secondina grandmother, and in my hands is something that glitters. I imagine a divine light that will take me away from this world of injustice literature, but instead, in the palm of his bony hand looks like a tiny metal bottle. I look rather, it is a USB stick. If nobody knows your book exists, it is as if there really. In here there are some names of literary journalists, good people, maybe can help you. And the grandmother disappears, leaving the shiny object in my hand. Maybe I wanted to believe that it was a small bottle because I immediately thought that I could insert into the message to be given to the waves of the Network with the hope that someone could receive. As the survivors who desperately want help from the infinite sea.
So I'm doing ...
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