Una noche como ésta -
me desnudo frente a la casa
que forjó mis otros mundos.

Nonsense. How comically ridiculous to answer mundane questions with more questions
only to provide means that will allow you to afford time and decent spaces;
having to constantly ask, "And where are you?"

All ruins should be mine - the decayed decadence of roaring times.
At this point, I'd be content to live in their echo.
Somehow, there is peace in an uproar which you can silence at will.
And yet, therein lies the eminent sadness:
I am happy with images
and strings made of sound,
leaves, color, and night skies.

And where am I?
Why not surrounded by peeling paint?