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commentator says] with a head full of filth. That’s why I’m going crazy, I can only write dreams and alcoholic deliriums, unleashing the monster [the other]: I’m Carlos’s scattered dust. And that’s why Alicia stared straight ahead while I burst into tears in the car, because she’s not from here, she has nothing to do with these dead bodies [the ones that’ll inhabit these pages], because she’s kind, even though she denies it, even though later, her jaw set, she says: “you don’t know me at all.” As always, I’m simplifying, I’m idealizing, I’m very literal; I should run away to the country that Alicia’s from, to the city where her friend Violeta wanted to live. Or where she is now. Here in Santiago we’re all going to end up stabbing each other.)

    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  August 16 th
    A quote from a different magazine: “Kristeva changes the location of things. She always destroys our last prejudice, the one you thought you could be reassured by, could take pride in (Barthes).” I should go back to reading. I wish I had more desire to write, but I’m exhausted. Abuse of the pen, the hope or the struggle to make this diary form part of something greater, so that it illuminates and is illuminated by another text. On the other hand, there is the fear that I’ve forgotten the important moments. (What is a diaryif not a retelling, an attempt to give narrative significance to a life that has no order? A deception.)
    Saturday night, during a party at S’s house, Alicia completely ignored me, and I couldn’t get into the game. We were strangers for hours, like I didn’t know she was following me with her eyes. At one point we found ourselves dancing face to face, and our movements seemed to correspond to two entirely different songs, then she disappeared toward the kitchen. A while later, I ran into her again: I was dancing enthusiastically and laughing with M; she was letting P wrap his arms around her. (Fear of the future, when she’ll be off traveling and not here.) She wasn’t the same either, struggling to show me that I wasn’t just another random guy on the university quad. She barely smiled, she didn’t ask how I was, even though she always does. (There’s no one else like her, I say, but I prove myself wrong if I go out on Providencia and count how many girls there are who’re just like J.) Before getting up off the bench in the quad (she’s always going somewhere), Alicia asks me to stop talking about the party: “Who are you, the one from Saturday or the one from Thursday?” I respond that today I am Carlos. She doesn’t laugh. I’m losing my spark, she said this herself. With a distinct quiver of her tight lips, Alicia tells me that tomorrow she is going to give me something, something I have to read as if it were more important than any of my unspoken obsessions, dedicate more time to it than to my thesis. I kiss my thumb and say: “a matter of life and death.” (She blinks, she hates me, I don’t want her to go, I want to spend my last days with Alicia.) She doesn’t find my comment funny and stands up.

    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  August 17 th
    I’ve decided that, for the moment, I’ve said enough. I should read, read, otherwise my own writing will become repetitive. Just like Alicia or J when you spend too much time with them: words begin to become excessive. All that’s left are the gestures, the looks, the hands, the mouth.
    I have a large envelope containing two notebooks that belong to the albino girl, Violeta. Belonged, I should say, she was writing in them just before she was killed. One of the notebooks is green, the other is covered in wrapping paper. One of them contains paragraphs she calls “Descriptions of the Sea”; the other, her dreams. Alicia gave me the envelope so that, in