Todos los hijos punkis que no tuvimos

“Snow is terrifying, snow is the future,” Scott writes in his diary. The future belongs to other people’s children, Virginia reflects, staring at a dismembered spider crab one winter Sunday. In that No Future where all the stories unfold, all the images multiply: the head of Alexander the Great resting on The Iliad, Sabino Trapiello’s character pogoing at a Galician party, or the epic Gonzalo Zapico spurred on by a heartbreak he doesn’t know whether he’s suffering or inventing on a Brazilian beach. For love, ready to move everything without asking anyone’s permission, as unstable as alcohol that begins to evaporate as soon as it’s spilled, is responsible for connecting these unpredictable stories that essentially take on diverse forms that go far beyond geometry itself: a triangle of desire, a green turtle, the republican flag, an enormous butcher’s knife, or a certain verse by Vicente Huidobro about a dismembered woman. There is love, or sudden desire, the same that fades away in the Berlin night amidst the flames of a St. John's bonfire.