Can I Use A 56 Instead Of 54 Ink Cartridge?

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ago fifteen soles I crossed the bridge of sighs to arrive at the land of the worshipers of the sea. The reason was a trip to the book fair in Lima. The excitement was living an episode of unruly life that I expressed the slightest unconscious. The cause of fate I invested as a representative of Magoeditores for submission of Anthology of poetry and narrative Chile where there are also selected some texts that I wrote. There, before hundreds of people on a Sunday closing and noise, and with more recklessness that gentleman, my attack perpetrated blue. Before and in the most sacred silence greeted my predecessors Rojas, Edwards, Lemebel, Fuguet, Zambra, and even the very Vargas Llosa, who sat there in a similar chair, had set the pulse magic of writing, facing the Lima avid and amazing. Read, read, and metaleí extracts from the anthology, including my writing, I finished my beloved-and-"die with Vallejo addict." The roar began to stress increasing my chest was the love, respect and attention of the people so close but unknown. Current Lima, unintentional lovers of poetry, without threats of pride and historical atavism, generously shared with me the verse levitation love, fun and terrible of national feathers.

Strange, but tasty dish was playing this new role. Podium many times I've shared so much talked about worldly things, sure of myself, as the path to a more proactive and visceral he may have, but this time it was emerging and unknown poet, the bard abroad received laurels and not simple mediate paraphernalia and medal, just for the sake of being ... if can be categorized as a fact. I went because I felt the bard whose voice sang out colors for the first time in Chile and that despite the story clearly testified dolorígeno only joy and pleasure.

So I finished my speech, with this poem given birth to the eaves of the Peruvian Vallejo died in Paris on Thursday and rain.

addict will die with Vallejo

For an addict like me,

Vallejo satisfies my deprivation ...

always silent,

suicide because words

hide and drown

in the liquid I am.

Once, not long ago,

I read in a loud vo z, happy, being introduced,

but as an abject and ironic design,

only served to kill the voice ...

there will lie buried with the poet,

a day later and every week.

All died Friday to resurrect every Monday,

growing less strongly,

all of it on the run, wasted in vain,

absorbed by the cancer heart, eager

unforgiving

outgrowth has me hungry and pulverized.

Caesar die every time I read,

every time I feel it cretins fists

and her childish eyes, obsequious,

scattered on my body, livid,

lying on the suelo, con solo el corazón tumefacto,

y sin que yo haga nada, solo morir y morir…

…cada vez que llueve y no estoy en casa,

cada vez que estoy en casa y no hay nadie,

cada vez que dormido ya no hay tiempo

porque todo se quedó en ese instante,

cuando me dejaste entrar solo un poco

para probarte y hacerme un adicto más.

I want to thank the gentle and mysterious Lariza Casana, press and camera image of the book of Peru, who gave me these and other photos. She left in suspense offerings is the desert that separates us from the possibilities. Was also in this corner of the destination is a subtle and powerful soul, Luisa Fernanda Lindo, aesthetic errant witness the inner world, gave me his fascinating book "false" and a lovely conversation.

also thank and welcome the efforts of the Chilean Jimena Pizarro Lila Christian books and Beltran, cultural attache; to Coronado Germain Peisa editor for his chivalry and generosity, and the whole team of Fair organization with whom we share a glass of wine closure at the stand of Chile, who was just heading round a day. Finally, a salute to the Peruvian poets Roberto Salazar, Federico Mendo Mendo and Kevin for their love and warm reception to my work.

Before posting this reflected what could say Salieri, or Fito here (again) ... heard, listened and metaescuché and I realized that Lima was a gift because no matter if you love me ... to listen Click here