There is a trace of perfume that claims to be new. The janitor, bucket and mop in hand, ready to secure the low gloss of the tiles next to the window. Tables and has runchairs that had to be out for even bright sun and moon. We stop to look, before the water hits the floor. I ask you to go to the formicario what is necessary to stock and install a thin dotted border around barefoot footprints, that protects the transit of the many ghosts of the place. I take a look without surprise, then, on the way to the mound, muttering something that pretend not to hear.
hear no more for today. I will ask for another cup of coffee that lasts until dawn bar again and lose this way has become exasperating this time, one of his many masks metaphysical not permanent.
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