How many identical points could possibly converge on a single path? Later, you'll only hear the echoes of each decision: the magic in the moon's turning, its indelible mark. Chance intertwining your steps, and uncertainty as your only baggage. Moments always incandescent, like indestructible candles. Crossroads and memories, curves and mending. You know that every map bears a balance: the question is, how many heartbeats will you choose to keep? * A SHORT POETIC BIOGRAPHY There were the photos of the tent in the middle of Cazorla and the white Seat 128, the Pentax ones, the Kodak-colored ones, the ones of the roads and the hay bales at the national rally championships, the one of the incredulous kid on Aspar's bike. And upon returning from each trip, reliving the adventure: setting up all the gear, untangling cables, turning on the slide projector and listening to the sound each time the photo appeared. Sunday afternoons at home, the flickering light on the screen, the memories, saving the passage of time. I already had the impulse, the meaning of looking. All of that grew inside me. Years later came my escapes and my returns, I changed places and perspectives, I wanted to be adrift, determined to conquer that same light. The veiled light that always accompanies memories. Then came the first second-hand SLR, the basic manuals in a library near the sea, the toy cameras, the old Polaroids, and the Nikon I rescued from the trash, the cheap rolls of film, three at a time, the wait outside the photo labs, "Matte, please," "7 x 10," "Thank you," "In less than an hour," a beginner's course in darkroom photography, pressing the shutter button without thinking, the company, the shooting from the heart, the journals, and the meaning. Times changed, nomadic ideas grew, and the notebooks overflowed each year. But even today, still, and more than ever, the impulse remains to return to the warmth of that light.