October, 2001, Montréal Murió la verdad ¿Si resucitará? The last time I came to see you in New York was a month ago, a day before we watched the World Trade Centre fall to the ground from the sidewalk outside your apartment. We spent the next four days in your apartment in Brooklyn, with the windows closed tight. The fire dust had moved in apocalyptic clouds over the East River, and it was impossible to breath outside. The smell was of smoke, toxins and burnt bodies; thousands of burnt bodies. We wanted each other so much. It was all we could do; mixed with the constant sound of sirens and the media broadcasting another war in the world. Without peace of mind, I had to find my peace in you. We are not so removed from this war and here is a burnt document that flew onto the street outside of your building. Stocks, market control, profit: these few words now take on much meaning. The world will consume itself by greed and this will not be the last time that the book of love is set on fire. Men are evil. They do not know how to love. The book is useless to them, they can not even read it. Its words are too simple, its language too pure.

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