Ivanovich Formerly in New York (or determinism of "childhood is destiny" is crystallized in a dark profession of love for a pony) 
Sir John Wilhelm III recognized amateur taxidermist, recounts the misadventures of his childhood pet, which inspired them to choose their vocation. (From the unpublished autobiography Romanza secret in America )
rides. Rides, draft horse, I say, and puffs and the wind blows wildly tender cheeks of my childhood pony. Awake drenched in sweat. Awake with tachycardia and sometimes not even awake, sometimes I keep a nightmare watching the New York winter wind in 1925 hurt the sweet and delicate left cheek of my childhood pony. And at times I hear "Rosewood" and that's when I awake, taking advantage that I have nightmares still in full awareness of what is proper to me and say what, if not a plagiarism, imitation, an infiltration of an element fiction, to film a tribute would more specifically say cult film, not to lose accuracy. Because precision is everything in my work. I mean, is not purely scientific, not say it's not if we completely humanistic arts and humanities, the fine and the other, but would not be antagonistic but if I could say that the humanities and sciences, coordinated in my profession, are complementary opposites.
The pony is shaken with the bashing it receives from the freezing winter air of New York. There are thirteen hours. No, perhaps eighteen, because it gets dark. And that evening constant, like a sunset that never ends but is almost dead, I come from my parents' faces blurred and pony looking in a different direction with each eye and can hardly see anything because it has blinders that prevent dizzy with the many possibilities of road, side, front and up vertical, and I see the shoes and stuck it in his legs thick and padded. His eyes fuzz. Calla. Why my childhood pony must suffer the relentless blows of winter in Central Park in her sweet cheeks and why repeat Rosewood, why fear me this picture? And when I wake up gasping, sometimes even drooling, sweat-soaked look the darkened room, the closet, the drawers, the old chair that I inherited my father and clothing of the day lying on it. And watch the shadows of the trees moving slowly on the floor of my room and the curtains billowing and I realize that Miami is a hot city, very different from New York and never have been here my childhood pony and here surely would have been happier winter and then see which are the four in the morning and see that lying in my bed my body only because Nora died ten years ago and my body is still warm and Nora and should just be bones.
Agitated and thirsty, melted in my sweat fall on the way to the kitchen and drink water. Back to bed. And in the morning wake up again as if nothing, because the nightmare just above the dreams, is never the end of the night. Then I read the newspaper and see that everything is more or less the same and then I walk or golf club and spend hours pointing to a small ball to strike with the power I have left and throw it away. And when the ball flies through the air I hear the buzz it does and look as far as I can see the light and disappear. The other friends come to congratulate me. Or give me encouragement. Or just come because they are bored and lonely. They always more or less the same. Me too.
Homecoming and I know I dreamed about the children's pony and Rosewood. When I was little that movie had not even done. In the early days of silent movies was all art, necessarily. Had to spend a few years before that word was used for some films, but in my childhood, when the pony, it was all art and nothing. That of Charles Foster Kane, whose name, or I would have dreamed, suffered, as my pony, and resonates in her nightmares Rosewood, like mine. I never went a newspaper. I had some success with women. I had women. They knew nothing of my childhood pony or the nightmares that arose.
no longer shakes. I coo at night with your feet moving mechanical wheels that are buffeted, with its support of middle wheels which makes it slow dancing in a methodical swing. I look awake and panting. At night I shudder to see the warm breeze of Miami licking her cheeks.
