The evening was strange…
I walked through the dumps and I saw everything that a metropolitan could give.
People calling people, dumb people, horns and the madness after rain…
Lalon would have been a vendor today… vendor of soul-searching music…
The pimps, the blackness, the smudged metaphors,
the unity of depression…the line of connected and lost cries.
Touching lips and sailing river,
concrete monsoon and mild hunger,
spilled nudity and silence of intercourses…
I walked and I walked,
the crossroads; I walked,
the cigarettes; I walked,
the controlled demolition; I walked.

Now the lights are on…
Gypsies have died…
I still have some whiskey left…
I don’t think babbling away the barriers won’t help anymore…
Collisions away this space is…

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Ian Espinosa.