I had spent three entire months in Havana without house, food and love. And gathering such absences in a single line could be excessive, but there is no other way to say these things unless I tell you that I was hungry almost all the time and that's why I insanely ate ten pesos pizzas because I was terrified by my guts moving down there, which made ​​me think when began squirming, and those were not good times for that, at least not the best. Or unless I tell you that I almost always came around midnight or one in the morning at a friend's house for him to think I came with a full stomach and because you can not be abusing of friends and my mother asked me to go back home, that I was born there and not in Havana. Or maybe I should tell you that I was doing this alone, and now I can not remember if I had someone close or not, but remembering in this way, makes me think that by those days I was, as I was saying, without home, food and without even a trace of love. Then I rented a...

 I could begin saying that the story I want to tell you is real, that it happened to me and no one told it me. And it's a legitimate artifice, it is clear, but I won’t say that for a strict and irrefutable reason. I will not say it any way now because you already know the story I'm about to tell you is a true story that happened to me and no one told it me. In northern Guantanamo province, on the way to the towns of San Luis from Yumurí, we can find the Mata Bay, an infamous place at first sight. And there is not need to be a great observer, not even a middle-class one, to notice something like that. On this shore, under a gray sky , the shadow of Osmar Suárez Durán, a man who is now working on the beach, in the sand , even back to me, glides. I barely saw him until he approaches to me, greets and tells me t hat he is Osmar Suarez Duran and is there to help me in anything I need . Then, I think he is another one wh o has confused me with...

And if a horse barks we will never know it because the horses do not bark.

1990 was a hard year to Cuba and of course, to any other place at the expense of the Gregorian calendar. Carlos Alberto Gonzalez is a handsome mulatto, a tall guy whose age is below 25 and who is thinking for a while that performance could be a good handhold where to rest the hopes in the last decade of a century less confusing than what people think. He's in a bathing suit, rehearsing an old play that lets his body almost naked. He goes out to the courtyard of the Cabildo, which is the last stronghold by these years for theater people of Guantanamo province, leans his back against a rough and cold wall and lights up a cigarette. He spends about 30 or 35 seconds with it in his lips, until he suddenly takes it with his right hand and runs back to the dark room and said in a hoarse cry why not going for those hills of the Cuban east to make theater . He says why not going to see what's out there, that theater is always the best excuse, and that that people will be endlessly grateful for an excuse like that. ... And...