I do not identify myself with this time in which alive. I do not share habits, likings, customs nor tastes with my generation. I feel like a rare tiny beast, like somebody Bohemian, out of phase, displaced in this globalizado world. The romanticism flows by my arteries and veins feeding this poor heart, that it sinks in the sea of the solitude in which lives. I never thought that it could dare to me to write these words, fruit perhaps of twisted thoughts, fruit perhaps of the frustration of which, after many meditations, it reaches a devastating conclusion for itself. I cannot resign to my life, since they did the romantic ones of century XIX, because this one is everything what I have. There is a phrase that way that says that the life is like a script of cinema in target, whose content we wrote throughout our ephemeral existence. To my I would like that this script was not lost. That people read it and will take it screen to the great of its heart. What we will have left when we have not gone definitively? Only the people of the surroundings closest will intensify the flame of our memory. But when they also disappear then our flame in this world will have been extinguished for always. Why not to live in the memory of future generations, since the writers and poets do. That literary immortality that is nourished of the human passions, that although they change and they are distorted with the passage of time,  they are essentially always the same ones. You excuse my osadía, I do not try to equal itself in height to the one of these great historical personages, only the time will be witness of my work and it will place to me in the site that deserves to me.