The man is a lonely crowd of people looking for the physical presence of others to imagine that we are together.
Carmen Martin Gaite
alone are the hours they , where I'm surrounded by so many people that overwhelms me, laughing, crying, angry shouts of children and women with sweat on his forehead with pain and sadness in their eyes, are the voices of those workers who you are in the metro, broken and bent from time to spend it every day, between cry and scream trying to use their best marketing strategy to sell chewing gum the "CIDIS" fashion, chocolates or ointments. Ex convicts paddle in hand, lies in the language, accordions sound under the fingers of the blind to go see her breasts and legs, children who distribute slips of paper with your fingernails filthy and badly cut, with its piesitos exhausted, and appearance of sharp and blunt one wonders, one does not known whether the heart will be something of innocence.
Victorias sung by those who look down upon the momentary neighbors, you find excuses to go anywhere that judging the judges what the talk of rolling walk. Thoughts cross, fire runs all over in this hell with fatigue and smoky smell of arrogance, the poor are poor for all the pain and know the world of the wealthy because lacks nothing and does not understand the ignorance of which is on one side, the blind because he has seen only with the soul's purity of spirit and no one understands, the worker for 8 hours in the office was killed and does not understand how the salesman can earn more without bringing wearing the tie, which stands alone in his thoughts and think, and dream and look and look and remains so, so lost, so immersed in this gigantic loneliness that makes you think, imagine for a moment that is not part of the crowd, but the crowd is part of it. That we are all one.
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