Qué hago, ¿me mato?

Once upon a time, there was a man named Mauro Morandi who didn't want to interact with anyone. He managed to live alone on an island for thirty years, until he was discovered and forced to return to civilization. "Civilization," they call it… Mauro is my idol. I've thought about replicating his feat, but flights to deserted islands are incredibly expensive. And, with my luck, I'd end up as neighbors with a group of flat-Earthers. We are surrounded by idiots. We are governed by idiots. You kick a rock and an idiot pops out. I've resigned myself to observing while I wait, with moderate optimism, for the arrival of the meteorite, the aliens, or World War III. Meanwhile, I've started writing these pages. Because I need to believe that I'm not the only one watching everything crumble. And because, before throwing myself in front of a train, I'd rather sit down and write a book. And if you've gotten this far, think about it: it's either read this book or end up taking medication.