The New York Street

I was there, on the subway, on the train, over the bridge. Just shivering as the other ones. They waited at the platform or looked through the window to the man dying. Over the tallest building a signal of hope: A yellow star pretending to be black. This guy of the blue gaze, just before the seizures, was admiring the weather while the train was running over the Manhattan bridge, pretending to be blind: “Yo hablo español, solo que no lo he desarrollado mucho.”

What kind of accusation against him? How to spread the idea without the help of his eyes? ¿Cómo interpretar la historia sin la permamente acusación de su historia? ¡No temeremos a las mariposas incrustadas en el pergamino de Agamenón! ¡No desperdiciaremos el tiempo mal ganado en las pesadillas de otros! “Is that not the truth Omar?”, he asked, just before his agony. We were too busy…