going process does not end when you leave a place. One goes in the body, but to leave in the soul must pass a timely fashion. Months, years, a lifetime. The spirit-mind-forces us to drive the nails in the past and makes us move slowly, tightrope walkers on a rope made of guts. Right now I'm starting the process of leaving Barcelona. However, a rather large piece of soul left me here. Eight years inhabiting eight different neighborhoods. A nomad between sedentary. So, by way of exorcism, in the next eight innings eight short stories publish-or perhaps more-related to these neighborhoods, with each of these pieces of viscera was throwing out there. Though I suppose that makes the nails will stay for quite some time stamped on a street in the Sagrera, or in a bar in Poble Sec, or a soulless plaza del Borne.
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