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The colonel must be looked at from up close We have to approach him, get near enough to be a nuisance, near enough to see his slow-motion blinking — that face of his, youthful still, though tired, as he bends himself once more over the page Now we will see him engaged in his true passion, meticulous over the paper that he touches with what seems a monk’s devotion, as if it were not his writing, but something sacred But that’s not enough We must get closer, until we see his image dissolving into tiny points Pixels of a latent madness Pale-cream shades from which suddenly, as we focus once again, that face we know so well emerges: the curly locks falling in a cascade, the receding hairline, and his eyes burning with a passion we do not understand It is this mortal passion we seek in all his gestures, in all his movements, until we see him broken down into a series of successive photographic frames: here, the hands in a pose of writing; there, the hands relaxed; here, the hands suspended; there, the hands hovering over the coffee Yes The colonel drinks coffee because he is writing On a white winter morning, the colonel sits down to write his life   ***   Spanish: Pirineos; French: Pyrénés; Catalan: Pirineaus; Occitan: Pireneus; Aragonese: Pireneus; Euskera: Pirinioak One would need to draw a map and tell a story But there’s no time The colonel has little time left And so it is enough to say: the colonel lives in the Pyrenees, and now, when he removes his glasses, round and adorable, the morning blurs into a solid white Even there, with his gaze turned to the white horizon, sitting calmly, we can see the signs of an unextinguished passion He doesn’t know it, but he has little time left That’s why it is enough to sketch the scenes with oriental brushstrokes Approach until we can get no closer, and see him dissolved in his own passion On an afternoon like any other, the colonel sits down to write three stories