To close the night exactly, the fingers are not caught, and is an art. To open it needs care, certain dose of skill and workmanship, hope that the next air renews the bedroom of the world. To go out to the night is like falling down and allowing to go by the forces that the gravity and his law have imposed. Then, the body makes itself comfortable to his terrestrial condition and looks between known aromas for the way that takes it to the happiness, although it is momentary.
The bicycles do not sleep, rest under the sky, tied to columns of iron or pure vegetable tree. Involuntary spectators are in the rúa, silenced iron animals. From his quietude, witnesses are of the horizontal movement of other beings that they populate and inhabit the metropolis. Many will not be again what they were, oxidized the metallic, parts broken or depressed the rims devoid of the essential thing, are part of these remains that the humanity is leaving, more not esthetic statics, like modern sculptures, as marginal settlers, along with cars, containers and lampposts. They make sad and, simultaneously, they produce worry, on having thought about his condition.
To close the rain without umbrella, with the naked and open hands is an art. To open it needs ways of magician or of illusionist. The consequent dizziness dilutes the senses, like the water a mud piece. The metal of the solitary bicycles, mounts that belonged to glorious riders in crystal days, lies solidly, like sample and exhibition, final museum, of the present triviality and vanity in the desires, and in the current affections.
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