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Swallowed by anguish I went to Saint Radegund's church and laid my hands on her stone coffin. All I could hear was the echo of that old woman's snoring; I didn't know one could be so loud. In the crypt also lie Saint Agnes and Saint Disciole. That's where you'll find those small windows. I sent their pictures to Safa-Maria, who said they soothed them. 

I am not a very religious person. Or rather, I am not a very good religious person: I don't pray often; I don't attend mass; I don't believe in Hell (or if I do I think of it as empty); I believe in reincarnation; and I often wish I could have sex with God, to make sure that He still loves me. Yet I still call myself a Catholic, because I still have faith. Faith in the future, faith in those I love. 

"Soyez bénis par ma main gauche, soyez sanctifiés par ma main droite, anges protégés par mon amour universel. Je baise votre visage, je baise votre poitrine, je baise, avec mes lèvres suaves, les diverses parties de votre corps harmonieux et parfumé." 

I finished Lautréamont's complete works on the way back home. I wrote a four thousand words prose poem about him, among others, for a poetry collection I'm now done working on, called Aguas Felices, a title I borrowed from Isabelle Allende's De Amor y de Sombra. In this poem, the narrator who bears my name is obsessed with a fourteen-storey rooftop in Montevideo (dónde el Lautréamont nació), stuck in a cold blue hour, hill-perched above the clouds and below the sky. 

If such a place exists, will you bring me there?