A few months later I left the house. I took the dog with me. I gave the cats to some neighbors. The night before leaving I opened the package that Enrique had given me to look after. I thought I’d find numbers and maps, maybe some sign that would explain his death. There were fifty A4 sheets, neatly bound. There were no maps or coded messages on any of them, just poems, mainly in the style of Miguel Hernandez, but there were also some imitations of León Felipe, Blas de Otero, and Gabriel Celaya. That night I couldn’t get to sleep. My turn to flee had come.
--- from “ENRIQUE MARTIN” by Roberto Bolaño