López Catalán is perhaps less well known street in Barcelona. Many things have not and many others do. Has no outlet. Has no stores. You do not have sidewalks. Not even a sign indicating that Lopez called Catalan. But many other things it does, is sixty feet long, a sign at the entrance indicates that it is contradirección, raised pavement and only a building with only a balcony. There, in that only balcony of this one building, Joaquin Flores Ribera drinking a watery chamomile while swinging the left leg on the right. Joaquin neck stretches, see the asphalt from those twenty meters high gray asphalt-and believes that it is green grass sprouts through the cracks. At the entrance to the street currency distant white shapes. It is incorporated with the same speed as the branching cracks in the wall. Bones creak. Sign in in the room now empty, there is only a bed, mattress and a smell of ammonia. Turned to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator unplugged. The cold surface returns that stabbing pain in the fingers. A rice dish who knows when, half a lemon dry, a box of wine, two eggs. A single building. He addresses the room, the tile floor is just up the asphalt out there. Walk over and sounds like xylophone. Back rests on the peeling wall and try to remember. Before him have to remember twenty square meters. But now Joaquín only able to remember the way that squeezes an old cloth. The cloth is dry, lint. One building, one floor occupied. Joaquin Flores Bank drops its puny hips against the only chair in the house. And without thinking, and without squeezing. In the fridge, while the moss intrudes between the grains of rice. Under the shell of an egg, a pair of enzymes eat the yolk. The ammonia penetrates the pores of the floor of the room. The crack in the balcony extends half a millimeter. And out there on the cracks greenish-Catalán López less well known street in Barcelona, \u200b\u200btwo white men beat the door. No matter what, and whether or not López Catalán, because soon there will be bed, mattress or ammonia. There will be Joaquin moss or crumpled cloth. Not a crack, or the memory, even these letters apathetic, and no one to continue telling this story ends.
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