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–Meet my Malecon seafront, the borderline where another reality begins. The wall of lamentations, the beginning and end of illusions. Outlet for sorrows and joys, frustrations and satisfactions. Towel for tears, recipient of the good and the bad.
Cosmopolitan fish, travelers, that let themselves be fished for some hours and take away with them the memory of a pauper’s sweat, a sweat sickened by alien smells, craving the fatuous yellow warmth and enemy of the honorable intent to obtain it.
Master of ceremonies to the stars, the best audience for nights of amnesia and beginnings, baptized over and over again by sacred streams of spiritual and profane liquids, and trained in the tuneless song of cut-up nylon strings and hoarse throats.
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