Perhaps by the time this text is published, it's already considered charca to say that something is charca. But delving into this topic has become a necessity, an obligation (and for my friends, an obsession). In short, something much more complex and less frivolous than I would have wished, which at first was reduced to a list of things that made us charca (according to my interpretation, of course).

That chic who is this girl, look at her. I don't know her, but she is next to me on the beach, on the bus, or I read her articles online. She is no one in particular and she is all of them at once. She is a type of girl. She is the girl who, without any effort, makes you want to be like her. She's a woman who seems to have asked life for permission to create her. In return, it gave her this face with just enough personality not to stop being beautiful. I don't know if it's cool or is it that she has a beauty mark right above her upper lip, where I would have always liked to have one. With that beauty mark, it seems like the world has to be a little easier. Maybe it's that she has naturally rosy lips or large, almond-shaped eyes, as if they've never known mascara.

I remember the exact pressure I had to apply to the button on my mother's car glove compartment for it to open. Also the wide and round shape, and the soft touch of the plastic when I operated it, making a soft, muffled, almost spongy click. I liked the pleasant sensation of that button and the power it gave me. It was the era when we had the black Peugeot 206. That is to say, it was the early 2000s and I, the sole co-pilot of our vessel.