Baltar Xinzo escaped the tyranny of poverty of his home country at the dawn of the 21st century and landed in a country now forgotten by history.

Unable to meet the standards of the prevalent class system, he lived under the poverty line, writing speculative fiction characterized by a dark tone, but in which hope and sensibility always prevailed in the end. 

After years living out of charity, wandering the street as a scavenger of discarded goods, and being denied social and health assistance, he died by his hand during the famine of the 2040s. Other outcasts like him dismembered his body, traded his organs for weapons and clothing, and ate the rest of his cadaver without ceremony.

May God have mercy on his soul.

“People have a morbid curiosity for knowing all about a writer’s life, as if they had an urge to contrast their life against his. They would love to read about the writer’s private affairs, his pitfalls in life, his imperfections, and mishaps, as if that would demonstrate to the reader that the new artist they just discovered is after all a flawed human being as well. In my opinion, that obsession hinders the enjoyment of reading stories, which became forever read through a murky spyglass.”

-- Costa Carcosa, January 2004