After almost desperately seeking an adequate budget to get to Isla Negra, yes, Neruda's house, here we are. At full travel, climbing ever higher. Child C began to feel the persistence in the body of the first pain. Perhaps the height or up and down all the time in the foothills. I do not know. Maybe something will be splitting the bones, head, tongue. Yesterday. For example. Yes ended up in bed. Almost fainted. Before. In Viña. Felt the world was torn. And the headache. And stupidity. That slowed movements. It looked like a death. He had to return. And today. While progress. On the slopes of pine trees. And eucalyptus. He realizes that these pains seem installed in the landscape. It has to be food. The lack of good food during the week. Pure empanadas. There was no need, no, buy a steak to the poor, as they say the menus, for being poor. The body. Now it returns those. For all the crap stuck. Malalimentación called lack of money. Hunger. Food poor. As there in the field. Face and pain of the poor. And I want to go. Back. Do not take it anymore. Rosario needs to be in again.
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