Madrid Madrid is a literary genre.
incaminable Walking a city never hurts. Madrid Madriz is again a city with zeta. And his tears fall on the asphalt on rainy days. And the days of the Sun is reborn from within, with a smile on his face and an open knife hidden in the back, because the days of sun the blood of the knife does not mix with water from puddles. Walking
Madrid is inevitable. A street leads to a passageway gives a place and you end up out in the street more, full of lights, beyond the shadows that give the cats in the alleys. In the avenues not heard meowing.
Walking my city is through. Start at an old neighborhood, houses and people. Of people who are not more by his time in this life if not for the stories they tell their shoes. Lavapiésy stroll through a downtown that each day has more accents. Accents welcome when they smell a dollar and Euro, accents vilified when they faced Inem row. It comes from the heart without wanting to either area. There are lights of buildings that never goes out, that his life is a continuum over time from birth to death, no breaks allowed, from first light until the necessary death. The latest flash comes just before melting the filament. And do not feel less afraid when I walk by slums. Because the poor can steal, but the rich I have the impression that I always steal.
the English Walk is an invitation to suicide. Standing at a light an ultimatum. Stinking machines arrange themselves on each crossing, as does a squad before going to battle. And you have armies lurking everywhere. People in the neighborhood, more by decency and the will say that for want of trying, she faces the daily ultimatum light with dignity through the myriad of lanes only when the green doll ordered. They are decent people, not the thing to go spotting windshield wastes own skull.
Madrid is an excuse to tell stories.
