paper I had a cat named Charcoal . It was black as coal, hence the name, in red letters, capitals and black hardcover and-black so intense that it seemed that you would stained fingers. I remember it was cold. The cat was missing, was hiding in the home or, perhaps, outside, the children sought everywhere. A girl and a boy, brothers. Were entertained to go look on the street. I used to be lying, but wanted them, always a step behind. Opened, closed doors, the voices called. Crouched to look under furniture, on shelves, in rooms. At the bottom of each page they said to each other, disappointed: "Charcoal is not here." "Charcoal is not here." Children were small, tiny eyes, dark and round as the moon, which, however, expressed sadness at times not to find our playmate. I do not remember if the search of tired. Of Anyway, it was none to help them. In that world, the adults were not looking anywhere.
I do not trust. Was known, explored, for some reason, that interested me with unusual force. The black lines, rough, thick, drawings, as flat. The yellow of the saucer that served him milk to the cat. The red dress girl. The empty grid of tiles. Mint green kitchen furniture. The half-hearted lack of colors in most of these scenes, where just rattled some detail the retina. Despite the austerity of those silences color, looking for Charcoal learned words like "bowl", "cupboard" "Stove", "ball." Their odors. The house smelled of that book in Argentina. The house was the book. Today I do not know where he is, why were cats, children and home. They retired on tiptoe out of sight, as everything from childhood. In addition, the little ones do not know directions. All in a magical "there", that as we grow will be doing more vague, more difficult to locate, in a curious world, ironically littered with posters and signs up to become a pitiful 'there, somewhere " a stroll down Las Ramblas unsuccessful memory tarnished.
Maybe if you go down the street and I dare close my eyes, I happened to get that smell a role, as an invitation. A thick paper, aged, creamy tone, protected by hard black covers. And then find the house. And children. And the cat. They say sometimes you have to get lost in the cities within us to find ourselves. So they say.
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