ESTACIÓN FINLANDIA

What do the dregs of the atriums, the rapist, the unpunished, the one-armed, the sweaty idiot, the one that cuts in rage the phone off, the one that cries know about your intentions today? What does the one who knows, know; the one that shed guts, put them together with electrodes, put them to fry, shouted in pleasure at discovering the formula, when seeing the cream of the hypothalamus, the answer to the coughing or sneezing? What do those who sleep on benches, those who went far away, those that die in the subway, those who bite the brake, and those that climb the high voltage pilons because it’s their job know about your voices encapsulated in our heart? Where is the glow? Who would seek for it in the familiar history, in the repressed homicide, in the market trash? And yet, any sound in the thin morning could lead us into your unerring abyss. An ordinary thought, freed from its waterwheel, in the air of the owl that drove the suffering away. Hostias , Ediciones...