My son is six. My daughter is three. I am 38.

Our dog is coming wtih us.

August.

Winter.

Martina wants to swim.

Nacho feels he doesn´t exist.

The chicken tastes bad.

Dad is working.

Earthquakes are still mild.

They sleep in my bed.

I take them back to theirs.

They wake up in ours.

Martina and her fingers.

In my chest.

Countryside.

Neighborhood dogs atacked our dogs.

We are not welcome.

Nightmares.

Earthquakes.

I don´t feel my feet.

I can´t breath.

Bees.

I feel the earth expelling me.

Vertigo.

My kids cannot be aware.

I need to contain them.

Earthquake swarm.

April.

Birds and eaglets.

Dad is travelling.

The nights.

One kid on each side, holding each other.

Martina asks ¿How long do houses live?

Everything moves.

Breathing fast.

My skin gets cold.

You don´t see me.

I´m broken.