His story was tragic. But he was too shallow to live his own tragedy, and too weak to escape it. It occurred to me that he has woven a web of lies in which he has perpetually lived like a curious spider lacking his own body. Night and day only crawling, spastic legs restlessly weaving lies, suffocating anybody who dared to approach him. Empty, in the middle of his own cobweb, desperately contorting his legs, he was existing somewhere between heaven and earth in a demotic world not created by god, but by a relapsed and dark demiurge.
Suddenly, in the midst of that darkness, Miguel’s memory flashed before my eyes. His smile on a tropical balmy beach. His green eyes, the smell of the orchids that he put around my neck. His frugal kiss left on my lips. I hang on that memory with all my power, breathing through my every cell the overpowering smell of the tropic, out of fear that the empty creature in front of me was going to contaminate my blood, to devour my soul, and to drag me in a world of damnation. I, for one, I was not going to be caught in his cobweb. Never!