THIS IS BLACKER THAN A NIGHT OF ENOUGH

This little hose was the one we used to ward off fear.

The Night of Souls when we climbed the tower of the cemetery of a 10th century church. Thousands of dead in that area. The incessant reapers had worked tirelessly to open tombs in the burial sites for more than a thousand years. They were our ancestors. A spiral staircase with steps worn by the millennia-old footsteps of the sacristans gave access to the tower. It was raining, it was dark, the mists hung over the valley.

Those nights still overwhelm my memory with the melancholic sound of the clamoring knocks that were spaced blows radiating the somo of Fuentesoto with lugubrious sounds of remembrance.

So. So. Who is it? so, so who will it be. Leave them, son, they will go away on their own. The souls are. What are they coming for? To ask for responses and reminders. No, I'm not leaving, I'm in the room. I'm not leaving, I'm not leaving, I'm holding on to your hair... My God, how terrifying. We would put our heads under a blanket, overcome with fear, and whatever God wanted.

  The priest Don Acisclo calmed us down by giving us a sip of wine from the recently harvested harvest. That must tasted like heaven. There was also liquor. Our fear passed and, now calm, we spoke very chatteringly with the dead who returned in effigy or representation to that altar where generations of men and women had raised their prayers to Christ the Redeemer.

  The priest who was the one who touched the jar the most, touching his elbows, said a phrase that had little to do with the Night of the Dead but rather a maxim of conduct for navigating life in Spain. “He who lives among men must have the cunning of a snake and the prudence of a magistrate and always be more uptight than a prosecutor... eyes of an eagle, step of a wolf, and playing dumb.”

My friend Felichín, who was a pick, smart as a lynx, completed the good priest's sentence:

─Evidently Don Acisclo, your worship is completely right, that the friend is the ass, the enemy the ass and the indifferent that the current legislation applies

─What things are you saying, kid! Very well said.

And that's where we are right now in Spain, which is experiencing a perpetual night of souls. Puigdemont returns wanting to fumigate us. He wants to deratize this nation.

Soon after the night, dawn broke, they played mass, the clamor ceased and the clappers with their bronze tongue summoned the living and the dead with the cry of Resurrection.

What Filuchi said and Don Acisclo's advice have served as a vade mecum for me to trick the roads of my country. And help me, stilts, because in this life everything is traps. and stalking