tres, de este lado.

• Anxiety. I've been waiting for a call the whole week.  I'm tired and unable to concentrate. There's just too many possibilities, too many options.  It feels just like walking into a store where you like everything, you browse for a while and all things start looking boring and generic, and you go home with nothing. I want someone else to make this decision for me. 
• I'm starting to wonder if I should be writing in  English about daily life.  El Oso is trying to build a "glocal" life in Buenos Aires, and writing in Spanish is partially his way of doing that.  All I have in English is work,  the small intimate language I use with the cowboy, the tiny interactions I have in the street. Perhaps a literary narration of the world would help me appropriate this language that still feels so detached and artificial. 
• Someone jumped off a building today, in one of the busiest parts of the city. Some people say he had their wrists slit when he jumped.  The news never report those, cause they fear other people may get crazy ideas and spike the suicide numbers. People live such complicated lives and yet, as humans, we're annoyingly simple.