Extranjero.
Foreigner.
Exiliado.



A painful finger threads the keyboard,
longing for long good rest and serendipity (as always, as usual)
to take him home tonight.

The alien mind takes off his glasses and hunts out to the window.
The sight of streetlight opens a flood in his memory.
Memory of light... you can have a whole discoteque in your head working and humming and it can be very well related to the different beings that inhabit the sparkles inside the glass that you have seen in your long underground hidden adventures.

And you start the recall. Invoking all of the memoirs inside your head, you vanish every other thought until you think of lightbulbs, of concrete in a high abandoned form, of a living thing that light comes inside the woven pattern of humankind.

There is light that is made of small towns.
Towns in which the lights goes out every now and then. In which light is a mistery, as it was a long time ago when fire spirited our limbs and shadows. Yes, light can be something wonderful but you will be surprised to learn how it is that light sometimes is the island from one neighborhood to another, from one dogshit pile and drunken piss to another, from one football court to another. Light as the proof that a man can rise above its misery and bring the shiny stars a lot closer... something to be despised out in the open but to be recognized as wonderful and chilling in your mind as the next best thing to flying away from poverty and dream-rape, day in, day out, until you are young and pregnant, or dead and prideful.

Electricity is the way out and yet the way in. Is the thing that separates stress and solitude from peaceful and quiet living, it's the only God in a world of huge metropolis built of silenced words... words like love, hope, strength, fierceness, cuteness, joy, courage, remembrance... so many words condensed in a forced and full of fear silence, houses and houses of the holy and forgotten poor.