I am on the Costa Brava, for work. I will stay a long time. Today I went out for a run and the north wind was blowing, a furious wind. I liked that strong stamina as I ran past ultramarine green fields and tormented holm oaks. The first day I spent here, in this house that rises above a painful cove, I went for a walk and found Severín. Very tall blond wheat field, he was sitting on a rug on a hill, next to a go tiny full of junk. She was traveling from Switzerland, with no destination. I felt desperate envy for the life of that free and lonely man. I ran back to the house that I had arrived at a while before and where, as soon as I entered, I was attacked by a voice that said: “It’s here. This could be the end of the road.” It will not be. When I was very young, I read this sentence in Pavese’s diary: “You should never again take seriously things that do not depend only on you. Like love, friendship and glory.” I’ve been trying ever since to make it meat. But I am weak and often tackle the Whitmanian idea that you can’t walk a mile without love. In the second episode of the last season of succession, Connor, the less important son of Logan Roy, tells his brothers something extraordinary: “The good thing about having a family that doesn’t love you is that you adapt. You are sponges in need of love. I am a plant that grows on stones and lives on insects. I don’t need love. It’s like a superpower.” Why am I going to return to Buenos Aires, the city where I live, a place where the sky is not a procession of light, where I will lose the stars and all the sea and this house to which I returned without ever having been? Because I’m not Connor. Because, even if I try, I can’t be a plant that grows on rocks and lives on insects. Because I don’t have the only superpower that’s worth it: not needing anyone, anything that was left there.