He came, he took me when there was no way; he won me. He came like a fine rain, as the train in station, as passion to fifteen and first kiss to the twelve, as coffee in the morning, as scribble on the back of my notebook with my raw drawings, as clueless time. Immediately beforehand, I undid my business and sent all them beyond to Marrakech, waiting only that he was the solution for my insane mind. He took away the bitterness that was inside of my chest, all my damn clichés, the sound of my laughter, my comic books from my childhood, my favorite sweater, that old song that was a toast to my heart. He got an outlet, some summers, some artifacts of longing. However, little words, my suitcase full of plans, a handful of flu and my hoarse voice, the pot of gold at the end of rainbow, recited poems from Pablo Neruda, upright courage, my sex appeal, some traces and remnants of my sketches, an awkward family, stored dreams, even an extra map with the curves of my body and the complicity of my desires.