rains on the street and you're standing in the doorway of his house waiting for the finished cigarettes consumed among precisamente.Hoy labios.Está thinking where to go is Sunday, and Sundays are guilty of loneliness of veredas.Usted have an umbrella in one of his hands, is a black umbrella, folding, has some bird siniestro.Usted opens the umbrella without worrying about shaking several times before doing so. And then you are responsible for all the memories that fall on your cabeza.Usted starts walking under the umbrella and feels it is too large. The same sense of abandoned architecture comes to contemplate the empty seat of the car, or looking at the middle of the bed empty, vainlarge. This solitude of the beds where they grow so fertility olvido.Más fungi beyond rain umbrella falls under the umbrella, rain wet also reminiscent of other days that make one feel guilty for not taking necessary precautions. You continue walking under the umbrella. It changes hands, does all the tricks useless man only at the beginning of a Sunday, is convinced that it holds everything, that nothing and no one needed under the black cloth. But his tricks only increase their feeling lonely walker dominguero.Usted then the echo of their steps. This warping of directions tom forced galley whip or beat of drum of tin to lead the puppet then feel a desire guillotina.Usteduncontrollable to mourn, and naturally can hacerlo.Bastará to lower the umbrella until the bright prospect of the street is clear in this black fabric that will block your eyes and see nothing more than the set of rods, those ribs silvery bat morning, and if you think someone can see, simply quietly closing the umbrella with his head stuck between the bars, as if proving the perfection of the mechanism while the rain falls on their shoulders, that sometimes shake, and their tears are mixed with moisture in the fabric.
Luis Sepulveda
