I write seated an empty writing-desk in front of. Only one pen, the notebook in which I write, and of bottom discman headress a song. Vocalise, of Rachmanninov.

I finish preparing it to touch it to all the day and the night. In my recent trip to Matamoros, in the hotel I left the laptop with the same music.

I returned of the work, we begin from the beginning.

Seven in the morning of Tuesday, I raise the new pages my site. I answer post office, I bathe. I think about that there is to wear clothes to the laundry, volume the suitbag that I used in the trip, and I put it in my hand.

I leave.

I raise my car, I ignite it, speaks to me. I think about things that spent Saturday, one hour of thoughts and feelings. Sometimes I cannot avoid to think and to feel. My mind indicates anomalies. I put them in the balance and the heart of the wolf discards all.

Memory the climate of Matamoros, the reactions of my body. I think about my incapacity to distinguish scents. In as in spite of it the laws of the physics allow me senses to be but receptive to the instantaneous, those that operate at molecular and nonatomic level. The sight and the tact do not work if the object is not in a determined distance, and the sense of smell and the ear yes.

I say myself, calm. Everything has his compensates. I commit myself to calm, and the rest of the trip instead of seeing the highway in that handling, I see an image in the Lobby of the hotel.

I arrive at my destiny. I stop, I open the suitbag and something explodes. The climate of Matamoros and something but. Perfume?

I remain in the car almost 20 minutes. Stuned, like struck by a mace blow.

The rest of the day I act in automatic pilot and I do not clear the coat to me nor in the return way. I suddenly am in front of the writing-desk in which I am and I ask myself as I arrived here. Nonmemory the return trip.

The coat continues dismissing that. He is frustrating to be able to catch something that happened days ago as if outside seconds ago. I have taken off the coat, deep breathing. I keep it in the suitbag that belong to him now in exclusive right.

Throughout my life I have seen people cry. The damn training makes me act and protect. The blessing that torments is that. The power to protect, tormented by eyes that cry.

But there is something more. To know itself innocent of all crime, and found remote temporarily by a force that hauls to another place, without possibility of resisting, and of being taken to where to one it is needed to him in another battle.

And when finishing, the nest of the eagles follows still on.

In the return way there are fogs, but as well as the mares know to return to where they are ponys, there are doubts of my no return.

My heart knows where it is the nest of the eagles.

I am lost. Yes. And if I see battles in the way, I will stop to fulfill my oath. To protect and to nourish.

And before, during and after the battle, single it will be left a thing. The gift of the wolf.

Power without fault, love without a doubt.