The streets of Lima before dawn are off by fog. Is not much behind that blanket of fine water covering the concrete. Between their paths of quiet, I walked for the first time in the city after a long time.
Pass the first group, in light of their headlamps breaks through the haze, I stretch my hand and climb. Sleepy passengers seem to sense that seen differently, we must Extano load a black coat to her ankles. The driver does not like how I dress. The collector and I yell at me down. I beg to take me a few blocks away, I'm not going to cause delay. The throats of passengers join the bus driver. I cry that is not problematic. Saco under the above machine gun, machine-gunned. I alighted at the next corner and keep walking.
From the gardens of older homes, protected by high walls, barbed wire and electric fences, comes up to me a music of crickets. I do not know if the complaint because they feel imprisoned, although this time they have to have already found comfort in his piece of land in his lot with grass sandwich. That music brings back memories, makes me tremble with foreboding. "I'm sick. I have to see her, tell her how much I love, I think. Among the high-walled villages, with the music of crickets, keep walking.
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