Querida: if you have to choose, I’m telling you, take the cow and not the crate, though a crate might do, the way it frames emptiness, highest law of the universe, id est, whatever you fuck up vanishes, what you made right or never made at all. Me entiendes, my dove? This means: sugarcane, death squad, poemas y sal—the small pony of the human heart. Everything must go! Even the sun, that sulphur rose, destined to bloom for somebody else. Still, I say the cow is finer than the crate, with its animal perfume (that tender heel), and if you starve here inside the turning circle of an empty god, just remember, nothing’s real.