.
...The black heat is reflected on a row of black cars, while I pass by the ample avenue with long steps; slowly.
The tall-gothic dome of "Our Lady of Remedios de Escalada" projects an isosceles, threatening shade over the burning, and still colonial paving stones.
The trees sway under the summer breeze like inside of a sleep...black fantasms with blurred faces cross the boulevard moved by cell phones with blue light: their faces are like cuts.
I don't see anybody, except the slight opression of my heart; the indistinct, introspective, personal opression of the leave (because I'll never come back, I know it very well; why everything's got to be black here..?)
In the nights of the winter, when old women die, when nothing is possible; when the haze cover the dome like a sinister lover; then...
My shadow won't be found by the sidewalks. Anymore.
