In a village of Portugal, the name of which I have no desire to recollect because I do not know yet, there will live, in no time, one of those gentleman who usually keep a lance upon a rack (understand what you wish), some old music, undernourished horse, and sadistic feline.
There is not much to say yet. But somebody demanded me ― loaded gun and emotional blackmail expression (you know I don’t care about the last; it’s just a piece of information) ― to tell about my fortune. This means you will know about me via e-mail.
And you might wonder: “Why does Òscar, jaunty as he is, send this message to thirteen people only?” Well, I’m too lazy to fill in the mails list, so I’ve picked a person out of every population sector who could show any kind of interest in the series of unfortunate events I’m going to live (or die). I trust in you to spread the news. Do I trust you because you are responsible and intelligent people? Well… No. It’s because you have a vocation for gossiping (not a vacation, this will be me).
Now good night, sleep tight, wake up bright in the morning light (when I’ll be boarding). See you soon!