Dear Mark?
I have no idea who you are or will be, since I still have no grandson to inherit an empire from. Nor do I have any empire, but just as one day did Hadrian (Watch out, not the Brazilian striker who shone at Inter Milan, but Publius Aelius, the one who ruled Rome), I am about to leave you a letter as an aid to your life. Also, if you ever exist and it occurs to you to google “Luciano + Olivera + infobae + Culture + Stupid”, at least something will appear to you. Legacies are legacies.
Let’s say, in the first instance, that just as that wise ruler wrote because he was beginning to perceive the profile of his death, I do it because I glimpse the cut of a strip of roast on a grill. I am not the one who roasts today, he is a third party (I will protect his name because he has family). I watch him atrociously manipulate that good adored by humanity and that is why I launch myself to warn you, dear Marco, that never in the fucking life of the gods does it occur to you to start cooking a strip of roast on the meat side. When you are older, this advice will seem stupid to you, I trust that the exercise of the embers will have given you enough wisdom. But if chance makes you find this letter in that territory of life in which making a barbecue is still something unknown, please remember these lines: “semper osse prima”. What’s more, I suggest that this be, dear Marco, the motto of your reign. The slogan, the claimhe hashtagsince that certainty, simple in principle, will define your intelligence and ability to govern.
As I write these lines, I sweat. It’s maddeningly hot, Marco. The birds commit suicide in the middle of the Via Appia, which here more than a street is an ice cream parlor or pizzeria. The heat is scorching. In case you don’t know yet, Canicula It is a constellation that contains a star called Sirius. It seems that when you see the ortho of Sirius, the heat of dogs begins, of dogs. You read well, young heir, I have written ortho. Wikipedia assures me that this is what is said at the moment of the appearance of a star, and I will not be the one to question this wonderful source of irrefutable truths. So how would I say AristotleIt’s hot as hell, Marco. As soon as you can, grab an army and invade Stockholm, slash the summers. And hit the air conditioning hard. In seventeen, because the whole planet is already lost.
Speaking of stars, dear Marco, I tell you that I was born under the sign of Capricorn. I have been a goat that lived its life migrating slopes by force of the hoof, clinging to a land that, sometimes, is too hard. Perhaps that is why I recommend the use of pliers only when your nails, already exposed to deep contact with the inner edge of the shoe, are present in the form of pain, never before. There will be those who accuse you of being barbaric. Don’t listen to them, bear the blasphemy, be stoic like our kin. Goats are practical and, above all, we hate falling over.
Independiente played last night, dear Marco. He tied 0-0, in a game that managed to cramp my corneas. Hours go by and I can’t forget such praise for ugliness. In any case, if you maintain the tradition of being a fan of Red, which in this family comes from the times when your ancestors harvested olives in the olive groves of the Peloponnese, I assure you that you will know the honey of victory. Also the acid taste of bitter defeat (the phrase is from my father, who did not make me Emperor but King of Cups), but hey, those are the vicissitudes of life. Ah, one thing: if you still haven’t seen avatar II Come on, Lola says she’s very hot. Lola, in case you don’t connect the dots, she is my daughter, therefore she should be a relative of yours. Then we see the kinship well, because the world, dear Marco, is a mess. They are all ortho.
You will wonder about your inheritance. It is time to admit to you that I have not been wise in almost anything and even less in mathematics, which is why I am almost completely unaware of the cumulative meaning of the material. This is my elegant way of telling you not to look for goods in my name in remote countries, for you will not find a measly acre. Nor ortho.
Hadriannot the one from Inter, the one from Rome, he loved antinous. I, dear Marco, have done the same with the flour. (Have a hand, proofreader! Leave that “a” where it is, not everyone puts such a joke in the middle of a section of Culture). I’m telling you because if at the time of reading this letter you are entering the third croissant for breakfast, or a milanesa special, I want you to know that it is my fault. Still, I’m calm about something. Unlike antinous, that in order not to grow old it occurred to him to go look at Egypt from the bed of the Nile, flour will never leave you. The floats either, but it’s a good thing that suicide bomber would have needed them.
You will have noticed, dear Marco, that our ancestors really liked to make statues. I see in Google, which is like Wikipedia but in colors, one of Hadrian. Curly hair, symmetrical face, lomazo. Rich boy. I walk through her body and stop there, because it is impossible to resist the temptation to compare yourself. It must be recognized that the artists of antiquity turned out to be good people, beings who when it came to chiselling limbs were pious and made them of a size that one looks at and says “well, I’m not sooo bad…” (Leave those “aaaaa” where they are, corrector, they are not a joke but I need the hypothetical reader to drag them with me). I think, while I glimpse the profile of a roast strip ruined by malpractice, how little our esteem would be if the idols of antiquity had been modeled after the Rocco Sifreddi, For example. Maybe we would have all ended up like antinous. Or almost all of them, because there is never a lack of the one who linked in the cast and reads with a smile. Ortho enlargement.
Finally, dear Marco. could feel me Marguerite Yourcenar and write an entire book giving you my views on the God of Dulce de Leche, telling you the horror of having reached adulthood without mastering the backhand with a top, reminding you that it was in Rome, more precisely and precisely in the Olympic Games in Rome , where Bochini and Bertoni built walls and built an empire… But I fully understand that at some point it is convenient to put an end to it and let you live your own adventures. The only thing I ask of you is that one morning you take out your pen and spend some time writing your grandson a letter, a kind of memory. Surely some newspaper of the time will publish it for you and so, from heatwave to heatwave, we will leave the trace of a life of greatness.
I love you very much.
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