Baeza, April 29, 1913
The poet walked over to his desk, took a sheet of paper from the top drawer, placed it on the leather writing desk, picked up the pen, and began to play with it. He did not want to look to his side so as not to see the landscape beyond his window. He preferred to gaze at the bare wall before his eyes. It was his way of looking inward, to the place where the wellspring of sorrow crossed his path every afternoon, after his French classes. Finally, after a moment of meditation, he unscrewed the cap from the fountain pen and began to write: “Palacio, my good friend…”, but he could not continue. The hook of pain rose up his throat, poking at the wound. He set the pen down carefully, reached out, and, taking the bottle of Jerez brandy, poured himself a generous glass. As he drank, he wept.
Juan de Molina
