Nacho Abad is not convinced by reality. Or rather, he's not deceived by it. That's why, instead of a novel, this is a kind of comfortable and spacious genre which is referred to as a novel because it conveys news. He offers us a book of short stories that remains whole and new after reading because within it even the previous is new. Within its pages the writer plays with the trope of memory as posterity, for example, and addresses the fact that the highly attractive idea of feeling oneself to be unique is something everyone does, something vulgar. And with the thread of this ordinary wandering he weaves an artefact of interlinked scenes that is also a trick, a riddle found in the shadow of psychology itself, on the outskirts of thought. Here is everything that Nacho Abad doesn't explain but which his cunning, crystalline writing leads us to understand, perhaps without his consent. Rubén Lardín.