The return from the long trip and the need to name things in an abandoned house, in a universe of distant humanity when it seems that it is already too late and you arrive at the last minute, running out, in their own country. Things mute look at us, and your nation has the need to be a nomination, a love to call up to your chest. Facing the risky step that the writer Mario Benedetti has called dis-exile, with a look that is fixed between rows of an unreal countryside or in the works of Cy Twombly as a pretext, this collection is the possibility that a return to foreign-house take shape and finish, ideally in the passing of the baton between a father and a son.
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