There are days when instead of being me in the world, the world is inside me. I get out of bed with the world and my stomach hurts with a dull, gut-wrenching pain. Unamuno, who did not know about globalization, only hurt Spain. This is nothing: it goes away with an aspirin. But the world’s suffering is not alleviated, for example, by the gold mines where the poorest people on the planet work, even with a six-hour ibuprofen capsule. I carry the world inside me with all its gold mines. Recently, 25 workers died in Arequipa, Peru. There, they were in a narrow gallery, I don’t know how many meters deep, there was a fire. Where do you come out of a burned gallery? Nowhere: You die like a mole whose nest is poured with gasoline and then a burning rag is thrown into it. I also feel the death of these moles inside me on the days when I wake up with the world.
