"I have decided to write about what is happening to my head. About the pain that lives in it and that does not allow me to live. About the noises that insist and keep me always vigilant. About everything that is lost, in spite of let this hand, which is now on my forehead, try to hold it. As you can see, I'm not talking about me. Who cares about me if I'm not even interested in it? I'm talking about disease. Indeed, the world has the diameter of my skull. Explaining why the night is in me and devours me tirelessly is the most political thing I can do right now. I had to be infected with death to survive, and then I could understand the life and pain of the world. I want to explain that the crossing of the night carries the discomfort of resistance, which is a lonely road but not lonely, because what cannot be said must be shouted, a scream does not require justification, it just needs a mouth ready to tear and ears who want to hear it. I wrote this book because I feel that what happens to me is not very different from what happens to many people. To finish I will say that in this text there is not an iota of fiction. Only the fiction typical of all writing and the imposture that exists in a speaking self, although the author believes that his writing is made with blood. "Santiago López Petit