It’s 01:02 AM in Copenhagen. Cold. Dark. Luckily, I’m not there. “Pilar is a fancy neighborhood surrounded by slums,” the cab driver said, pointing out the window, into the weak lights by the side of the road. Argentina is a rough place. I’m walking in a mall. The sun is setting and I’m bored. Anxious. I need a drink. Fucking business trip. Fucking sobriety. “Got the lonely traveler blues,” I write my friend. Back in the hotel. I go on Tinder. Play Candy Crush. Tinder again. Candy Crush now. Instagram. Happn. Tinder. Hit the hotel gym. I exhaust myself. A skinny milf works out. Looks at me with disdain. I’m not wearing workout clothes. I’m hungry. In my room again. Naked on the bed. Tinder. “December 1st,” I think. As if it never happened. As if I didn’t stalk my ex on Facebook and didn’t find her and didn’t stare at her newest picture for far too long and felt the weight of the truth. As if I didn’t care about her 30th birthday. But the urge to write that obnoxious Whatsapp message wasn’t there. Can’t stop hurting, but I can stop hurting her. I hope. Though I haven’t eaten and still sit naked on my king-size bed at the Sheraton Pilar. Writing what I thought would be my response to Kerouac and his stream of consciousness crap. Can’t do that. I like paragraphs and the sense of style. Yet, I can’t seem to break these words into smaller chunks of digestible text. Or anything readable nor worth spending a few minutes on. Jumping back and forth in time, in my head. You can’t… No: you won’t even begin to understand what it feels to be stuck in this head of mine. Ask my therapist. She’s confused. She can’t find Eduardo in me. Hell, I can’t find Eduardo in here, either. Who is that guy? All these turns and twists and life changes and women and fucking emotions. It doesn’t stop. I will not make it stop. I fuck up and repeat. The names change. The locations. The backstories. The smells and flavors and traits. They always change. But they are the same: black. Big black holes to be. Just a matter of time. And the emptiness within grows. And I grow into it, to become nothing. So I’m not better than him. I can’t kill him. Cannot kill my father and his legacy in me. Eduardo Hernández, II. The heir of a long lineage of fuck-ups. Me, the recovering alcoholic. The regretful brokenhearted mess. Oddly optimistic at times. Rarely. Not very good at ending stories. Or telling them. Not freezing in Denmark, though. Silver linings.