For him there was nothing more fragile than see rain. Transparency picked up a weight such that it moved a few inches to hit the ground. His distress increased with the first burning, indecipherable events occurring always at the edges of the city and were orchestrated by invisible characters in the early evenings May. This anticipation prone to despair made him bellow and sealed in the fourth private home. However, the rains come yet be visible. Rain fell in hearing your thoughts and then the thunder, the incessant peals on the glass of the window as thousands of flies. Sky while cleaning the water were the cracks in sidewalks and railings: pieces of the reflections of the world, in the yard wet clothes hanging on the bonds; of the shelters fell a persistent leak in the rain last vestiges of architecture built for infinitely squeezed . The trees became more obscure and far as the eye could see, it appeared the rain had demolished with its intrinsic strength that wall of smoke that surrounded the city. The rain was a victory. Now for the moment the world was more like how I knew. He believed that every rain renewed the relationship of the people, relationships, parkas and subtle, tender and invisible relations arising from before the rain. It was just the water, fragile as conceived, unveiling each of these stories that people write to walk the streets in their day to day. At minimum mist between the people and the city's sidewalk was eloquent. It traces its inhabitants embodied the rain, each sole each step were not given a kind of typography that mingled in him a figure promoting constant multiple meanings. The water still invisible at times in writing the history of this city and all. The second story of him and his hours, his breath.
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