Fernando Gallegos

"It's not pretty, only weed grows in here, like in that song"
I'm filling the gaps, unfinished conversations, and voices that come from far away but bounce against the walls of the car. I sometimes feel like an empty room. Am I tired of the landscape or am I tired of being nostalgic? Imagine a person that travels, thinking of something important as he looks through the window, and the idea of a song, but which song?

(fragment of a collaborative text by Juan H. Villar and Fernando Gallegos)

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