In the author's words: All my life I've thought I'd get a woman in bed because of the way I write. I'm deluded and arrogant. I write because it comes from my gut. Because of the anger I feel after going millions of days without a penny in my pocket. I write because for entire nights I've been consumed by self-love. By believing I'm the best. Even if it's not true. For me, I am, because I write the best I can. I write because of the foam that rises from my mind. Not from my brain, but from my mind. A foam that emerges when I'm sad. When anger, rage, or envy torment me. A foam that takes the shape of the things I like and the things I don't. A foam that forces me to writhe. And that drives me to undo the world with words. Sometimes it's also for the joy. The joy of seeing a man in the ring, masterfully beating another or flying from the third rope. Sometimes it's a woman's body, the miracle of one being in my hands and making a sound. Because another thing that makes me write is the music that emerges from women's bodies. But above all, I write to recover from failures and not be ashamed of them. To boast about them and understand them. I write to pick myself up off the canvas, to describe what it's been like to watch my own blood fall, to know that I've been destroyed by so many blows, to recognize the gaps in my gums where my teeth remain, and still believe that it's possible to win. If there's anything more than winning. I write to tell you that I missed a few penalties, but that I'm not afraid to hit the ball again. Or to fly it. That's why I write. More or less. So be it.