They are in the cities and in the villages. In the mountains and on the plains. In every crowd, in every congregation. In every shop or café. They are everywhere. Sometimes you can tell who is one of them, sometimes you can't. I like to believe I can.
On the subway platform there's a perfectly beautiful brunette who stands serious and humble waiting for the next train, with her portfolio hanging from her right hand and her glasses and her petite figure. She remains indifferent to my devotion for her as I watch her for half a minute when my train stops at the other platform. She might be one of them.
The patronizing lawyer smiles unaware of the fact that he remains a villain, no matter how much he smiles. Always impeccably dressed, there's no social event he doesn't attend so that he can show off his new silken shirt or his minivan or his last vacation in Thailand. He's surely one of them.
The dull neat guy who everybody likes despite his inability to hold a proper conversation or to express a thought coherently might be one of them.
The squeaky middle-aged businesswoman, with her bleached scourer-like hair and her executive clothes, who seems to know everybody and talks as if she owned the street is surely one of them.
The insane little lady who insists on buying some lottery tickets when there aren't any left might also be one of them.
'Will you give me two lottery tickets?'
'I'm sorry, I ran out of them.'
'But yesterday you told me over the phone that you had some'
'I'm sorry, I don't remember that and I don't have any tickets.'
'Why don't you want to sell them to me?'
'I've just told you that I can't because I haven't got any.'
'But yesterday you told me over the phone that you had some!'
'I'm sorry, I don't remember that and I don't have any tickets.'
'Why don't you want to sell them to me?'
On second thoughts, both ladies might be one of them.
Two lanky giants walk slowly, wearily, the same street and the same dog every day. They both wear old-fashioned clothes and glasses, they look very grave and they seldom utter a word. One could pass for the other, except for the thirty years of difference between them. They are most likely two of them.
We are surrounded. Anybody could secretly give their support to the shrewd bad guys and the wicked witches who contrive their evil schemes in merry luxurious covens. Why not being a scoundrel, since you can get away with it. Flocks of ominous birds and dark fumes cover the blue sky making it look greyish. The bullfight starts at five and is bound to finish just in time for the procession. Yet money is the true god and fucked be those who were not born in a golden cradle. Long live the new old regime. There's no way to fight them. Or is there?
On the subway platform there's a perfectly beautiful brunette who stands serious and humble waiting for the next train, with her portfolio hanging from her right hand and her glasses and her petite figure. She remains indifferent to my devotion for her as I watch her for half a minute when my train stops at the other platform. She might be one of them.
The patronizing lawyer smiles unaware of the fact that he remains a villain, no matter how much he smiles. Always impeccably dressed, there's no social event he doesn't attend so that he can show off his new silken shirt or his minivan or his last vacation in Thailand. He's surely one of them.
The dull neat guy who everybody likes despite his inability to hold a proper conversation or to express a thought coherently might be one of them.
The squeaky middle-aged businesswoman, with her bleached scourer-like hair and her executive clothes, who seems to know everybody and talks as if she owned the street is surely one of them.
The insane little lady who insists on buying some lottery tickets when there aren't any left might also be one of them.
'Will you give me two lottery tickets?'
'I'm sorry, I ran out of them.'
'But yesterday you told me over the phone that you had some'
'I'm sorry, I don't remember that and I don't have any tickets.'
'Why don't you want to sell them to me?'
'I've just told you that I can't because I haven't got any.'
'But yesterday you told me over the phone that you had some!'
'I'm sorry, I don't remember that and I don't have any tickets.'
'Why don't you want to sell them to me?'
On second thoughts, both ladies might be one of them.
Two lanky giants walk slowly, wearily, the same street and the same dog every day. They both wear old-fashioned clothes and glasses, they look very grave and they seldom utter a word. One could pass for the other, except for the thirty years of difference between them. They are most likely two of them.
We are surrounded. Anybody could secretly give their support to the shrewd bad guys and the wicked witches who contrive their evil schemes in merry luxurious covens. Why not being a scoundrel, since you can get away with it. Flocks of ominous birds and dark fumes cover the blue sky making it look greyish. The bullfight starts at five and is bound to finish just in time for the procession. Yet money is the true god and fucked be those who were not born in a golden cradle. Long live the new old regime. There's no way to fight them. Or is there?
0 comentarios:
Publicar un comentario en la entrada