Two doors down the street from the hotel, the script on a shopfront advised, “Live Tattooing Upstair”. The living tattoos of Buenos Aires. I knew then that BA was a shadow version, a mirror, of Nova Swing (that old New Nueva Tango); of Viriconium; of the inside of my head the last forty years. It had the been the right decision to come seven thousand miles to read aloud a story called “The Neon Heart Murders”. I was on Borges Street, I was on Cortazar Street. The Delta was full of rain. It was the youngest delta in the world. It was full of white birds and half-sunken boats, stilted houses hidden on the temporary silts. The bars were full of beautiful people. It was FILBA11. It was a city of dogs where, in a hotel breakfast room full of 1970s soft rock, I would begin to construct a self capable of finding itself. Etc.