My head is trembling against the window, while my eyes follow this continuous straight line that points to infinity, the infinite way South I can see in the horizon. Tomorrow arrives equal to the present, arid, flat, of all shades of yellow and brown, resembling a calm sea this boat with wheels sails while gently undulating. Only the sky cuts through this pastel polychromy, a sky of an intense blue where white clouds show up once in a while, frosting the sky with a low-hanging cotton candy, low enough to be reached by a small jump or by a children's dream. This monotony of an intense and flat beauty is broken here and there by a small elevation, by little houses that show up timidly, by an abrupt sea view that reminds us the one we are sailing is fake. Along the way I stop many times, for days, weeks, hours, slowly, in the laziness of being here. I stop in Viedma, doorway to this vastness, as well as Las Grutas, deserted beach of a summertime which has already ended. I take my time in Puerto Madryn, where the sea watches me, where animals come on vacation, where I know the last two penguins out of the hundreds that have already headed somewhere else, where the whales will arrive very soon. I fly through Comodoro, the place where all the winds meet in their way to the end of the World, where they will turn back to blow again throughout the Earth. My head trembles against the window. I see the sun go down, falling asleep, disappearing lazily, shutting my eyes together with his. I have no idea if the line will be there when I open them again, continuing straight and endless. Maybe a new horizon will arrive, but who cares anyway... I only know the line will continue, more or less straight, and I'll continue with it.
Somewhere in Patagonia, RN3, Argentina, April 2009
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