's dark. Go for a walk. The music of the last concert I chase through the streets of downtown. I am sad note. A blend of melodies of the past that are vented from the red stones of medieval architecture that is disappearing. I reach. I hear him as the expert hands of an old lover who no longer want. Singing voice controlled. Redness on the skin of a sun that I was slapped once again. I follow the familiar walk these streets, recalling the dangers and know how to find the beauty.
are being the basket in front of a decaying building that once I look at the sundial chanting my days as a student away from home. I lived three years in that house. I look at the lighted windows. Someone changed the curtains. In that room I slept with her, the friend of the heart. What you put my clothes. The one who lent me his pants. Sleepless nights preparing for exams. Friends' parties and drunken that melted on the steps of an apartment colored. And a cat, daughter of instinct and a mother of unborn puppies.
keep looking at the lighted windows. A ghost moves its shadow across the room. Those who live where I live?
I approach the door. The bells are the same. Brass and stained plywood off-white labels from old and new names. Mrs. blackberry, tan in all seasons, still lives here. One day she broke the TV. A roar that I had never heard. The astronomer on the top floor but no more. Too bad, it was nice.
My name has been replaced by another, shorter, unknown. And 'what happens after a farewell, I think. The passage of a witness. A name is cleared, another takes its place.
's just a house! I repeat. Four walls of clay. Plaster and paint. And I love moving. What is this sadness?
The massive wooden door show the same signs of the time. A deep incision of the day came that the thieves, small scars drawn from the keys of eager hands and a slot where it continues to shelter the same spider as I feared.
What aspect? What I seek?
I see me open the windows. Greeting the custodian of the building opposite. Open the drawer of a cabinet painted pink and still wear the white shirt that I liked so much. I would start there, where everything was still whole.
I look at the window. The changing light of a television set marks the rhythm of the last commercial. E 'over the carousel, I think. Maybe it's better to go to sleep.
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