Se detiene la ciudad ante la puerta, se cuela hasta Los dientes sucios de nostalgia. By now silence is near. It comes with a slight gallop, erasing avenues' names. The crooked night quiets. Bell and echo diminish until they become crickets.
Asphalt men chip away at expectation in corners.
Song imprisoned in a shadow. He leaves syllables of skin on a chair, half his life in files. He walks, discovers an angel stagnating, in limbo. Before his fear the street folds back on itself, he breathes it, completely deaf. The city lingers at the door, filters in as far as nostalgia's dirty teeth.