For Ozair Tavera Fragoso I We made a pact, the kind you only speak too late, with an open bottle and death sitting at the table. If one of us ended up full of tubes, the other would bring cyanide. No warning. No remorse. With the loyalty of wounded dogs. He used to laugh when he said it. He had that worn-out laugh of someone who has understood everything and no longer wants to understand anything at all. He said life was a long joke, a job without pay, a room with no exit.

There is something deeply symptomatic in the collective reaction of disgust toward female body hair. This disgust is expressed with a calm that borders on the moral, a certainty presented not as a subjective preference but as an objective truth. It seems not to be an emotion patiently learned and refined over centuries of visual convention, but an unquestionable biological fact—a natural law of attraction. Hair in the armpits, the pubis, the arms, the legs, or along the soft

I am the dense silence of the spectator. Revelation never arrives with cinematic fireworks, but with the impact of a poorly calculated phrase. A decree born of that arrogance you hide in front of the mirror, returning with the rusted edge of a boomerang. There are no swelling chords of tension. Only a heavy silence and the slow drip of a brutal suspicion: the fire you swore to fight—you were the one who started it. In the background, a spinning top that never quite falls turn

Major Tom drifted in the belly of the night—“The Nautilio,” a shell suspended in an obsidian ocean that sought its heartbeat, was his vessel. From the hatch there were no stars, only wounds of light flickering like half-spoken secrets. Space was not pitch black, but a ravaged canvas where colors had fragmented, leaving only the memory of a glimmer once called home. Tom had left Earth the way one tears off an old skin in a single motion. In the distance, the notes of a Space O

“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)” — Walt Whitman I. The Dark Fruit Night leans toward the abyss, and in its depth discovers its fruit, hesitating on the cusp of its thorns, as if tangled in a leap of faith that caresses, roughly, doubt; dismayed among weavings by a penumbra that devours it endlessly, aware, perhaps, of its near nothingness, of the lucid wisdom in its disgrace, it throws itself into delirious fai