Julio
The days seem the same and they are not: they are all different, but I prefer to remember as if they were one day. So I forget that today is January 17th, we're in the middle of winter and there is still much to spring, let alone summer. There
who hates routine, I love it. The routine is a piece of asphalt softer, more comfortable in a newspaper, a piece of guaranteed sunshine from 9:00 to 14:00, the baker, which opens at 6:50, an old lady who leaves home with the dog at 8 : 15 and 8:16 to curse because the dog has already peed against the box (or woman! With one foot in the grave and still smokes and fearless blasphemy), passing a boy at 8:45 with spots, it's always a new brand on the face: he smiles at me and mock me for fifty cents releases every other day. Certainly feels very good. I surely worth, here sitting on the ground to beg. I thank you and pretend to spit on the ground. Between 10:00 and 11:00 a lady always goes down after her skirt and drops a trail of scent that smells of female glazed and styling. He lives in the building on the right, in and out, full of boutique bags (maybe collect them). Increasingly agitated and pulsing. Do not ever leave me a dime to be one, but to me that I care if I peek from my desk legs and sometimes even the thighs and put his hand under the blanket, which is there on purpose.
I love the routine. The routine is home, my home is Madrid Calle Atocha n ยบ 43, sidewalk, right, second door commercial next to a bar that is also a bakery: bread I get in quantity and there are no baguette give it to dogs of Tirso de Molina, to I only like the baguette. Every morning I pass it, I rarely get up before noon. If it rains and the asphalt is wet, I prefer to leave the rear springs to cheer me up. And if it's just a cold bastard like today, I declare day off and I'm going to try a hot corner: there are dozens of secret places, the dark hallways and semi-abandoned warehouse where nobody comes to bother you. When is one o'clock
isso me on my legs hairless boy-scout, tripping a bit 'till the blood does not circulate back to sleeping in the joints and start to take care of my spare time. I'm lucky, I work only part-time. The afternoon is spent around. I am coming down the Calle del Olivar, moderately satisfied and moderately pissed off like any good citizen of this city where people cry when he speaks and flapping your feet when walking. Parallel to the Calle del Olivar is a narrow strip that down to a colored square, done in steps: the square of Ministriles, a hole between two rows of buildings seems the space between the teeth of a toothless old man. Sometimes I sit down to rest and I'm going to watch the pigeons shit on the benches, while groups of blacks mingle with whites happy sad eyes dilated who smoke and deceive each other.
and down to the Plaza de Lavapies rifled passages from the people. Young and old are dragged back and forth, each driven by a different fever: couples seeking friends, friends looking for a beer, beers in search of the mouths of bar-goers who already mumbling at five in the afternoon, afternoons looking for a way where the sun and the blue of the sky are often not for everyone, a sufficient way, as they are for me. He slowed his pace surrounded by children clinging to the skirts of the assistants, boys cross color anxious that file away under the eyes of bored cops in the depressive phase. You hear laughing
Calle Argumosa; people if they're sitting there at the tables that, even in winter, dot the edge of the sidewalk. They open their mouths and close, smoking in the evening. While walking, jumping from one conversation to another, through the sound barrier, I hoarded scraps of sentences: "... I am exhausted, I do not know why I keep going to the office every morning ... maybe because they pay me ..."," ... when shares ? I'm really happy, so you take off a bit 'from ...","... All right, you're right ... but I'm not sure I'm wrong. "
slide away into banks nebulae speakers, infinity boys hugged, I winked at the legs of a tall boy in purple skirt that pretends not to see me ringing the ponytail.
finally came to the Ronda de Atocha and I find myself under the red wing of the Reina Sofia ready for the crosswalk Atocha station. Here I was, in the middle of the night commuters, with a firm step the metropolitan man, now in its terminal stage of development, ready to swear that there is no desire to smell of backyard or field that can tear the city and its infernal fro . I walk like the others, among dozens of others, through the Paseo del Prado with his eyes standing on the imaginary thread of my steps. No one would be the difference between me and them, I'm lost in the flow of through professionals who advance as marching soldiers. Maybe they are not dressed well and did not smell of bleach, but not them. The people of Madrid to sell their bad taste, smell of garlic and, usually, are proud. We see that reflected on that program ford tv, how to invent an excuse to dine out on what matters to scream at the top to use to their children. They already have thoughts at home, 20 minutes by subway from Atocha. Also I have already thought at home and my house is in a bathroom of the station or somewhere along Menendez Alvaro, or on a bench in the Paseo del Prado, or wherever you want, even if rarely change when I find a good place. I am a 40 years old, as all the old routine and hypocritical as all their forties who are convinced of their worship life, and decided to love Madrid, their cities, whatever the cost.
The days seem the same and they are not: they are all different, but I prefer to remember as if they were one day. So I forget that today is January 17th, we're in the middle of winter and there is still much to spring, let alone summer. There
who hates routine, I love it. The routine is a piece of asphalt softer, more comfortable in a newspaper, a piece of guaranteed sunshine from 9:00 to 14:00, the baker, which opens at 6:50, an old lady who leaves home with the dog at 8 : 15 and 8:16 to curse because the dog has already peed against the box (or woman! With one foot in the grave and still smokes and fearless blasphemy), passing a boy at 8:45 with spots, it's always a new brand on the face: he smiles at me and mock me for fifty cents releases every other day. Certainly feels very good. I surely worth, here sitting on the ground to beg. I thank you and pretend to spit on the ground. Between 10:00 and 11:00 a lady always goes down after her skirt and drops a trail of scent that smells of female glazed and styling. He lives in the building on the right, in and out, full of boutique bags (maybe collect them). Increasingly agitated and pulsing. Do not ever leave me a dime to be one, but to me that I care if I peek from my desk legs and sometimes even the thighs and put his hand under the blanket, which is there on purpose.
I love the routine. The routine is home, my home is Madrid Calle Atocha n ยบ 43, sidewalk, right, second door commercial next to a bar that is also a bakery: bread I get in quantity and there are no baguette give it to dogs of Tirso de Molina, to I only like the baguette. Every morning I pass it, I rarely get up before noon. If it rains and the asphalt is wet, I prefer to leave the rear springs to cheer me up. And if it's just a cold bastard like today, I declare day off and I'm going to try a hot corner: there are dozens of secret places, the dark hallways and semi-abandoned warehouse where nobody comes to bother you. When is one o'clock
isso me on my legs hairless boy-scout, tripping a bit 'till the blood does not circulate back to sleeping in the joints and start to take care of my spare time. I'm lucky, I work only part-time. The afternoon is spent around. I am coming down the Calle del Olivar, moderately satisfied and moderately pissed off like any good citizen of this city where people cry when he speaks and flapping your feet when walking. Parallel to the Calle del Olivar is a narrow strip that down to a colored square, done in steps: the square of Ministriles, a hole between two rows of buildings seems the space between the teeth of a toothless old man. Sometimes I sit down to rest and I'm going to watch the pigeons shit on the benches, while groups of blacks mingle with whites happy sad eyes dilated who smoke and deceive each other.
and down to the Plaza de Lavapies rifled passages from the people. Young and old are dragged back and forth, each driven by a different fever: couples seeking friends, friends looking for a beer, beers in search of the mouths of bar-goers who already mumbling at five in the afternoon, afternoons looking for a way where the sun and the blue of the sky are often not for everyone, a sufficient way, as they are for me. He slowed his pace surrounded by children clinging to the skirts of the assistants, boys cross color anxious that file away under the eyes of bored cops in the depressive phase. You hear laughing
Calle Argumosa; people if they're sitting there at the tables that, even in winter, dot the edge of the sidewalk. They open their mouths and close, smoking in the evening. While walking, jumping from one conversation to another, through the sound barrier, I hoarded scraps of sentences: "... I am exhausted, I do not know why I keep going to the office every morning ... maybe because they pay me ..."," ... when shares ? I'm really happy, so you take off a bit 'from ...","... All right, you're right ... but I'm not sure I'm wrong. "
slide away into banks nebulae speakers, infinity boys hugged, I winked at the legs of a tall boy in purple skirt that pretends not to see me ringing the ponytail.
finally came to the Ronda de Atocha and I find myself under the red wing of the Reina Sofia ready for the crosswalk Atocha station. Here I was, in the middle of the night commuters, with a firm step the metropolitan man, now in its terminal stage of development, ready to swear that there is no desire to smell of backyard or field that can tear the city and its infernal fro . I walk like the others, among dozens of others, through the Paseo del Prado with his eyes standing on the imaginary thread of my steps. No one would be the difference between me and them, I'm lost in the flow of through professionals who advance as marching soldiers. Maybe they are not dressed well and did not smell of bleach, but not them. The people of Madrid to sell their bad taste, smell of garlic and, usually, are proud. We see that reflected on that program ford tv, how to invent an excuse to dine out on what matters to scream at the top to use to their children. They already have thoughts at home, 20 minutes by subway from Atocha. Also I have already thought at home and my house is in a bathroom of the station or somewhere along Menendez Alvaro, or on a bench in the Paseo del Prado, or wherever you want, even if rarely change when I find a good place. I am a 40 years old, as all the old routine and hypocritical as all their forties who are convinced of their worship life, and decided to love Madrid, their cities, whatever the cost.
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