The breeze of the wind that crosses my face, which crosses your face, the bullet in the head, the blood stuck in the roof
How to return to look at the history? How to go back?
I was born the year 1979, six years after the military coup in Chile. I grew with the dictatorship in the arms of my mother. She told me that paradoxically it was the period in which it was happier. He was after a wall, protected from everything. As soon as I grew, my mother realized that it is not another period in Chile of so long and sharp(acute) precariousness and vulnerability of the life, I am a part of this history, contradiction flood.

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