Al fondo del jardín, después de los helechos y la maleza, y las flores silvestres, hay una calle inmensa. La noche se vierte sobre ella como un líquido tibio. Lo cubre todo, semáforos, buzones, estaciones Underground, the stand of the tight, steps, railings. On the road moving a boat manned by ghosts. He sounds the gut. Was grinding his bones. It hurts the keel. Now that everyone is asleep, I went out to the deck to tell you that last night is for us, but us go slowly stealing his watch. While falling into the void as the hours. Although all the dead around us look like you look at a text written in an unknown tongue. The night has come to save us from this riot of twisted lines and rusty spokes and tires arsonists. It is possible that at the end of the street has a pier, with a bench to hear the very edge vinyl calmly waves. I've come to tell us that although the wind betrayals the treacherous curves of the wind-September night, "I think at the end of this street the ocean into the air the sound of his endless groove. The stars make their way with difficulty through the light radiation of the city, and we leave behind amphorae, files, emails lost forever in a data silo. I've come to tell you that I think at the end of the sea is a beach, a secluded cove and beautiful as a beacon to a tanker at gunpoint, as a deflated balloon in the yard of an abandoned schoolhouse. And it is possible that some drift us closer to the shore if we keep the right mind, if the herd of wild horses to save us from madness rampage definitely not off the cliff. At the end of the beach I feel it, there is a garden with a table and two chairs. And there are some food and drink, and is dawning because it is not required at night. But now we are here in this immense ship crawling on asphalt. And we sat in silence, quiet, on the starboard deck. Madrid lights wink at us. Only Have Eyes for oblivion. And I wonder how it will end this trip.
But again I say, now that the silence surrounds you twice in its wings like a cloak, at the bottom of everything there is a garden. There's your garden, Talita Cumi.
