It is in rough dust this place, as in the middle of the sun, biting through the puddle Mediterranean. Preserve the sprawling urban madness, raw materials are, of land as she and rocks and vegetation and sand. In the soft back of a German sedan that smells of leather, inside glazed, the nature contemplated in the black metal burning. And inside it looks the way with nausea on the edge of the tongue, lightly. He looks at the white line of center tarred his brain make him vomit breaded cutlet that contains the stomach acid. The colors and smells dry place him in a recall imagine him, a refuge. In this village in western or we walk a half-naked. Being a wild character and tribal. Be free because there is nowhere to go. It is as if he had to leave yesterday, and yesterday it was a year ago. He gets lost in the darkness of his glasses which obscures vision already dark. Which allows him to observe without being aware that hides its states. Melancholy is what this place is regular, he has seen throughout his life, he saw growing up with him. And vision of wasps coming out of one hole in the tomb of his grandfather is in his eyes. They eat meat, they eat the dead. Carrying large piece of flesh visible between their leg and be impressed. A grandfather reincarnated thousand things. Feeding the engine of life. Nourishing an eternity. Observing a young couple that intertwines the end of the small dyke of the small village. With fatalities in mind that prevents him from fully immerse in the moment of arrival.
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