L'EPILOGUE

What am I living? How come all this happened to me? From the 7 billion people that live in this tiny plane; why me?

It is worthless to complain, time-travel is a futile illusion. But, does all of this make me unique? Does the fight I am going through set me aside from all the others teens around the world? Am I worth God's concentration and effort to make all this timely happen to me?

It seems I am, everyone says I have a bright path ahead. Do I? Why do I even doubt? Why can't I just be patient? Why must I get anxious? How am I supposed to sail amidst of darkness?

"We were in a café in Rue des Vrais; it was the third of August of nineteen-eighty-six. The confetti carnival was over, I was smoking a Camel cigarette, while she was drinking some vodka in a fancy and uncomfortable cup; she looked stunning. We had already talked about Heidegger, Nietzsche, Van Gogh, Bismarck, De Gaulle, Churchill, López and Roosevelt. By that time we were drunk in knowledge, mixed with shots of russian vodka softened by meals so on."

Why is alcohol a critical element in writing? Eventually it becomes essential for story-telling. The cliché scenes of Sodoma's Consúl, the passages of Truman Capote's adventures, even the tales of Marquéz include alcohol or smoking. Movies and even songs are filled up with tons of those so called "social elements". Why are they even considered such?