Well me, August

Terrace of a bar in the Plaza de Cascorro.Olmo Calvo /

I had a work colleague who every year in May, when the distribution of the summer holidays was considered, had already been threatening the immobility of her plans since February.

"Well, I, August," I ditched, undaunted, every attempt to negotiate about it.

What if your reservations, what if your tickets, what if your triennia.

His reasons were sacred;

those of the rest, anathema, and there was no one to remove her from the donkey, until the donkey, sorry, the boss, took her down by force.

Something like this, bridging the abysses, occurs with individual responsibility and the coronavirus.

We have it.

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