Oh, Eurovision, by Mónica Vázquez

I do not know why I still have hope. I do not understand how after so many years and my personal experience (which is a different story for another day) I am able to sitting in front of the television with the illusion of a child on King’s Eve, embraces a glowing hope that is seemingly determined to survive the constant attacks of cynical common sense that human mediocrity has taught me to survive out of self-defense. Maybe it’s that I, like Spain, do not learn to look where I’m going, no matter how many times I trip over the same stone.

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