A body in its passerine excellence looked at me. I didn’t notice right away. It takes time to know what in reality has been passing. And so we’ve written letters, long ones and fun ones, others that confess unmentionable things. And for all we’ve said in them I don’t know your house, you don’t know mine, and you’re several countries away. At least we fit within the illusion that we’re “Latin Americans,” that “we come from immigrants who had wanted to return home.” Anyway, you’re so far away the only time we went to your country we flew over the snow-capped Andes. I had read what you’d said about that mountain range, but it’s true that to see it and be seen by it was something else. So it’s exactly where you understand the price you pay for distance. On a map you’re a horse and I’m a mare, the two of us are the same color, nearly the same size and by a whim of mine we are apparently the size of the country where we we’re born. We’re separated meridians that I’ve painted in blue and white in memory of the sky and the clouds (that you transformed on the page) and if you add up our drawn bodies, if we stretch them out on the map, we would close the distance between our countries (on the map). A verbal measure that exists between wanting and talking and living to want to talk, of seas and nothing, of pasts and of everything. So we’ll speak tomorrow with uncertainty but with a full mouth. Dying daily, drawing and writing nonsense. For the other side of the map measures the still bird, the one I said looked at me. So this theory goes, my infinite friend. It serves as no more than a letter, but it isn’t a letter, it doesn’t negate the distance. It’s nonsense, but it’s the only home where you and I find each other.