I’m waiting Puigdemont, to enter through the headlines like through a chimney, with the size of the chimney that he wears in his speeches, and that he enters not to bring gifts, but to steal our candies and socks. Halloween may have just passed, with its gum-chewing dead and cold-wielding ghosts, but I guess it’s already Christmas for Puigdemont, who is like a reverse Santa Claus, a reverse saint that the Sanchista religion forced upon us, like Santa Claus. Muerte in a wig. It’s late in the trees, which seem to be putting on hoods from the sun, and it’s late in negotiations, cold negotiations, with a lot of coffee drinking and a lot of kneeling together, like cold days in the afternoons at the in-laws’ house. It’s already getting dark, and we continue to wait for Puigdemont, this awkward, stupid and frightening wait for the man in the nightcap and charcoal jacket, to whom we will have to hand over the family candelabra, and until then Don Quixote We are also familiar with what the Constitution is.