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the only two

pinheads are two black eyes and no reflections of the old aunt. Only two of obsidian. Protected by tired eyes, stares at me without moving. Curve in on itself does not feel the confusion that surrounds it, the result of the new generation of energy.

notes and inspires me in simple words and heavy.

- now my memory does not work so much. But this is not the problem. It's the little things. As the television. I'm angry that I can not look at it, with all these commands, these buttons .. and when I can not .. the fact is that I'm alone, I do not know who to ask.

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They move runs. Moving weightless gestures slow and winding, then rapid and syncopated. Her legs flutter among the constellations of drawing him into the air. Their bodies touching, almost never actually touching. Around them, other bodies are pervaded by the same sensual, owned by the energy of the night. Flowing light gestures on the sublime. A swarm of bodies, each pair is a microcosm, a specific plan laid out by the feet and legs, an evanescent embroidery on the floor. Yet each of them is the voice of a silent choir.

is a shell of the old luxury that surrounds them. A living room walls full of light and shadow. Big mirrors, pilasters with chubby cherubs, gilt frames, scrolls, benches covered with elegant fabrics. Two crystal chandeliers descend from the ceiling frescoes.

Right now nothing exists outside of here. The world has ceased to exist, vaporized instantly asleep in a deep breath. Outside the window it rains, but it does not really. It's like interference on a film set pause, a pink noise that covers everything. This is outside the ivory tower and there is nothing.

Until end. And then the faces will once again be the same as always, will hide the bodies in jackets and coats, your eyes will return to rational, the words empty shells. Leave the room empty, thalamus wrinkled and sweaty, to get back into everyone's life.

'll call what awaits them outside Bologna.

And what has happened tango.

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noir

I leaned over the balcony. Outside the air is light, sea air, despite the heat of late August. Below me lies the park de la Ciutadella, with its palm trees, its gardens, its halls of the century. The zoo that the darkness lifts its chorus of screams and verse.

To my right stands the Tibidabo on the horizon, such as flaming lava rock, huge sculpture of amber. At his feet the city slips into the sea. A solid cast stone and glass that a personal signature of artificial light to vibrate in the night.

I see the big crack in the Diagonal, going up to get lost between buildings, up to the area of \u200b\u200bexposure. La Meridiana. A cut on the horizon Mont Juice, the Catalan Olympic Gabicce. Before me, the Barri Gotic, Raval and deeper. L'Eixample.

My eyes lose the details of what I know, that sulfur lost in the aura surrounding the city at night, the cloud of vapor that hovers over the roofs and streets like a film noir.

And while behind me there's the aroma of a meal with fish and red martini I enjoy your beauty, as something beautiful and forever lost.

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The train goes slowly down the steep wall of Montserrat. The top leaves behind us as they move along the smooth stone. Around the sides by tourists, walkers, walking outside the city. Get off at Monestir and take the train to Barcelona. We sit and accelerates the removal. The surrounding landscape is changing rapidly, much more than it did in all previous days. We hear him. The voices began to mingle, accents and languages \u200b\u200boverlap. The film projects a window made of accelerated sequences that run through the mountain landscape of the valley, from the countryside to the suburbs empty sub-branch. Glass me hypnotized, leaves no time for my brain to breathe, the bomb with a series of scenarios and changing color, natural and degraded.

My mind goes back a few nights before, to Artes. At the TV placed above our heads, after days of abstinence and a life-speed man, had swallowed every word, every thought, every breath. We were engulfed by a color LCD monitor placed in the corner of a bar on the outskirts of the industrial area of \u200b\u200ba shed in the middle of nowhere town. As the apple of sin in the Garden of Eden. O Miss Italy in the Bronx.

I look at the window and I can not help but think that the speed, in all its forms, has this result. Depriving the man of the time required to metabolize what happens, decode it and digest it, makes him a pawn in a wind tunnel. A suicide bomber launched his personal history. To follow what it should build.

Before arriving in the city synapses are already returned to simultaneously process more data to process fast stimuli.

remains just a little 'to silence, between the gears of the brain, the legacy of two weeks of wandering.

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heritage trees

As a legacy. The legacy of the fathers. The legacy of the countrymen of those around you.

might be different, better, wiser, and simple, but then you find yourself falling short of what you thought. Not so pure. Not so deep.

You look and see-through them, your negative examples, which slowly plowed through their DNA in you. As a relationship of sonship, we have converted to what he always tried to not to become. A subtle but steady and continuous decline.

you look in the mirror and wrinkles are the same. Those of human indifference that surrounds you.

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iron

Sometimes it seems that this damn sentimental famine resulting from the habit of being deprived. As if our spiritual greatness had made a bonsai, systematically pruning the new shoots and new joys. As trees grown in iron.