Francisco Castro’s Diary

Meet my Malecon seafront, the borderline where another reality begins. The wall of lamentations, the beginning and end of illusions. Outlet for sorrows and joys, frustrations and satisfactions. Towel for tears, recipient of the good and the bad. Incubator of monsters engendered by our collective semen and the ancestral sludge from centuries of ships and blood from failed intents at conquest.

I remember the last time that my family celebrated my birthday was when I turned five. They organized a party in our house with a lot of children. In the middle of the birthday cake they put a big number 5 that had been used on another cake…