ran. Passed him the most common. His view was swallowing up the attributes forzozos step a morning ineffable: the neon lights of Chinatown, stunned people in shops, rusty bell of the old church next to the gallery of the neighborhood, always full of portraits gallery no glory, saturated with dust, forgotten and lights as brief as the glint of metal in the heart of the tires, which rolled from all parties on the burning asphalt.
Above crucial scandal in the morning, your clock one hour irrecordable shouted, as is often the rush hours in the doorway holding a look without being welcomed to the extent unpredictable consciousness. Everything was just happening in that time, although obvious, it seemed impossible because Plácido Joy to ten years since I arrived late anywhere.
left the sidewalk. Dodged a jump the corner, shiny blue, a fancy car. He put innocent face the driver to insulting in the brevity of a word repeated enough to be rude. Was a driver too white for this latitude, too cool for the season, as taken from a toy box winter. Plácido was translated in its report to the agency's cold and artificial memory that made him pick up the pace beyond what is possible.
The agency was a shallow building whose luxurious Dimesion facade got along poorly with the rest of the block. Plácido crossed the hall with the rush of a frightened bee, to lock in yawning metal lift. Anxiety took it slowly until the last link in a vertical chain of doors where they waited, eagerly plunged into a marble-eyed face hidden behind dark glasses reflection.
nothing seemed at that face again, it was the same silent question in the last ten years.
face undecipherable grimaced and turned slowly in the clock path, down the hall, where needles accused eight twenty-six.
Plácido melted in his own sweat, slipped between the heavy grooves of the door and, drifting with the current of his steps, reached the penultimate gate right.
- Be sure to stop by my office - I noticed the face before the eye can -.
Plácido bit a curse under his tongue, stepped through the door and went through a loud clean room, without looking anything other than a sheet of paper on the desk.
"Call me"
prayed the note under a six-digit number. He dialed the phone disk with asleep thoughts across the street. The bell went off in a breathless voice.
- listen!
- Who speaks?
- Who do you want?
Plácido was suspended in the certainty of having lived before that time.
- listen! - Insisted the voice and went out in a snap.
After the monotony of the dial tone, the air was filled with a crowd roar.
Plácido opened the office door and found himself in the street. The whole world was shouting in the hall locked, deformed by the grotesque rectangle of walls where only retained their size the window and the clock at each end. Needles ticked the eight twenty-six and the man let himself into the maelstrom engulfed in terror Time stopped.
The noise grew by the minute until everything seemed to explode and hid, suddenly, after the cries of a lone voice from the noise outside was seemed tender.
- Take off asshole! - He shouted - Take off that I will run over!
Placido stare at the center of the wall under the clock where it came, running from infinity, a shiny blue car. Volume filled the space, edge on edge. He shook as if awakened and made to run, but the air seemed saturated with honey and encircled his body in an unwanted hug.
At his side step running a wonderful man sized, stuffed into a monkey training. Thumb stopped the chronometer had hidden in his right hand and wrapping their own silhouette, appeared dressed in tattered habit of a pilgrim. Placido recognized the priest Octavian and, while running, I greet him nodding.
The priest stared unperturbed and said
- 'd better confess your sins, son.
- I have nothing to confess - Placido said panting in his career.
- fool! - The priest reproached him with hatred - fool! Fool! - He shouted and his voice became the cawing of a crow flying in the light escaped from the window.
Plácido turned to look back and saw nothing. No light, no shadows, no forms or colors. It was the exact view of the absence, the ocular sense of time, silence and oblivion.
He felt the impact. It reached the height of your belly and threw it back into the light of the window.
In the next instant everything regained its dimension and the sky appeared capping a path in the air filled with birds of all kinds who yelled, fool! Fool! ...
Plácido Joy tried to get up but something that was not enough to call pain, kept him on the floor. A dog came to lick his face wet blood preceding an army of ants hurrying. Everything is possible height of silence and an old gray was happening, he leaned over the man's pale face, taking a pink bra. He stroked her cheek with sadness, randomly placed between his fingers icy pink and murmured:
- Be sure to stop by my office.
Plácido Joy woke bathed in sweat, heart struggled out of his chest. Amid the horror heard the phone ringing and was shuffled to the room. Picked up the phone and prepared to listen.
- listen! - Almost cried -.
- Who speaks?
- Who do you want?
the other side of the line replied silence.
- listen! - Insisted -.
Then his glance fell on the clock that marked the eight twenty-six. And hung up, muttering a curse, he hurried to the closet.
As he dressed hurriedly tried, unsuccessfully, to remember your dream last night. The rush to put him two strides in the street and took him to the race between the crowd that filled the stores. Passing by the church his eyes lost behind the bell, it was there, his thoughts, his pain, his haste ... dragged her body just like an avalanche toward the corner where the lower eye of light shining.
left the sidewalk of a jump and turning to meet a memory, the belly was the impact of a ghost at night.
All eyes turned to the street view to roll over the pavement.
A driver for this latitude too white, too cool for the season, gave up his place behind the wheel and went to lose the happiness in the eyes lifeless Plácido Joy. Lay the man wrapped in himself, as if he had stayed always stopped in traffic.
After the crowd that filled the corner came to the race, like every morning, Father Octavio. Someone who saw him pass, he shouted:
- 're late to the confessional, Father.
- This need not confess - the priest replied while running -.
- Did you knew anything?
- I met him in a dream - he managed to say the cleric in the midst of his haste and ran to rhythmic step between the neon lights of Chinatown.
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