IN SHORT

A few days before he died, my father looked at me as if joking—or maybe a little sternly and pleadingly, I’m not sure, he always did that—and asked me to write a requiem for him. Instead, I kept a mourning diary. Between the second season of *La Casa De Papel* and the half-kilos of pistachio ice cream my mom and I ate, during my trips to and from the bathroom to bring the bedpan, and in the conversations with my father in bed that ended in tears, I was writing this text. Something like an auto/hetero-biography, like a declaration of love, or an attempt not to forget. I leave it to him, along with this performance, instead of flowers.