Manuel Astur has the misfortune of sensitivity and a sanguine temperament, and everything that happens to him hurts or overjoys him.

I’ve just remembered the way a can of beer falling from a balcony was for him like a sign from God, a clinking of aluminum that harbored meaning. The barking of a dog as he was falling asleep, a volume of Curzio Malaparte in hand, that was enough for him to come calling at my door telling me we had a wild night ahead of us…