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I realize time of great change.

I realize when I look at people talking and keep you from concerts to follow the music. When I look at a bunch of human beings gathered under one roof, with a dozen children scurrying about, and all pretend to play their part to better society. See the pettiness which surrounds a pullover as the naked souls of new parents. I notice looking at you while I talk about things that do not want to know, I do not want to take part in projects and ideas which do not share. When I hear tell beardless regardless of the effort made to break their phone and obtain the latest model of his father. Bambocci giving air to the mouth from the comforts of their family. Demonizing political enemies as if they were races or categories that embody stupidity and moral depravity.

me my blood boil to feel empty words to try to tear other empty words. Trying to break my word sparingly, my fight against the futility of dialogue. My strike against a communications company that I do not like and do not want.

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silence are like me give

you swear that you will not.

Look at them. Look at the way they do cynics, their inhumanity, misogyny and misanthropy. Observe the betrayals, lies, suicide and the loss of all moral ethics. You see them fall to the god of profit, zero reserves desires, feelings drainage. And do not

capacity as we can reduce it, as some people has come to barter humanity with animality. How they could have chosen to put their lives on tracks made of a rigid routine so myopic that they will inevitably lead to dissatisfaction, remorse, anger and then violence. You do not explain where they have lost their youth, with what they have traded the light in his eyes.

And then just a little. Just a few years with them, a few months of work, a time of hardship and moral breath happens. What happens is that you look at the night before with little strength and conviction, knowing that it is but a step in the series. Watch your brain placed behind the monitor without anger, waiting to turn around and return home. Cultivate solitude, water every evening hours with distilled unnecessary.

And you find out exactly like them.

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13: manresa

Above umbrellas of leaves hide the sky, eating light, squeeze the air.

earth under your feet wet, fertile ground, grass at times.

around tree trunks, bushes and weeds. A double stone portico, an average building in this century. Then a portico of screws, a metal building, a laboratory of experimental cuisine. The concrete pavement, the ultra-luxury conference center, the modern pavilions.

And far away, the heart of all the Monastery of San Fruitos de Bages.

In sweltering heat of early afternoon, we can not help but find shelter here, beneath the trees of this complex class. Lying on the ground, with rucksacks on their backs, legs, beaded with sweat in contact with the ground, swarms of mosquitoes to feast on us even more now that we take care of that.

Breathe. Limiting communication. A drop of water (stolen from the bathrooms of the convention center) sometimes. Expect the sun to stop this earth to cook again.

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dia 12: artes

Sitting watch the sunset fade in the hills north of Artes. Behind us are the remains of a terraced walls, buttresses and arches. Above a square strips. The old

Artes dominates the town square from the top of the hill. At the sides of houses spread down the slopes leading to the south. But homes are lifeless. The blinds are pierced, dirty, broken. The glass shattered, the walls covered with dust and peeling. An area which is no more noble that the back of a small village on the outskirts of Barcelona.

And to embody everything we think the church steeple.

The Catalan flag stands idle on the tip of the ear drum, while below two long openings expose the bells from the rooftops. Not below remains a fascinating wall, modulated by a small door and the principle of an arc.

Austere and blind in light tower stretches twilight horizon, guardian of a cathedral of dreams that no longer exists.

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And so on. Unnecessary small daily dramas that roll on the sheets of the calendar, day after day. That alternate weekends as a period of lucidity and joy, too short and forced to be truly free.

And then, as inevitable as the book after the prologue, get the damage. As if all this dust raised was not merely an introduction to real disaster. The slaughter morale.

And one wonders if the first, when all were trifles in the air, dust cosmic harbinger of future disasters, it was not the case of burrs. Sprinkle a bit of 'give us this life before the allergy.

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dia 11: l 'estany

The apse of the monastery of Santa Maria de l'Estany is a kind of mirage after miles of bush, and no man-made landscape.

We are approaching a lady who should give, on behalf of the Archbishop of Vic, a place to sleep for the night. Open the door at the back of the church, climb two flights of stairs and then opens another door. In the heart of the Fourteenth-century monastery, a few inches from the transept, what lies ahead is a completely new studio. Kitchen opens with a window, a mammoth hole in the wall, the garden apse, round table in white wood, sofa bed, bathroom and loft fir with large double bed. Two skylights bring light in the living room and loft. Fantastic. We could not ask for more.

The lady offers to take us some vegetables from the garden, since we are short of supplies.

And so, after a quick tour of the village and a hot shower, get ready to eat. On the table a fabulous

hot vegetable soup, six beers and our credentials, while outside, as if he had become a ritual now, the rain drops to bring the night.