The gentle touch of the fabric and the skin, the structure of a new way to see the human shape.
The subtle eyes against the red of the view. How a lady should behave behind that curtain of fabric, that covers her shy silouethe. The long legs walking in the dirty street, the noise, and her.
The feeling of getting old, the clock tiking every second in front of her nose, reminding her is getting late. The light in her mouth, and that smoke she used to share. Then is her in front of the crowd , walking.
When the back and forward goes around of the lights, behind my neck, the unstoppable rhythm of one city who remains in quiet just for the ons who really hears. All kind of eyes surrounding me, all of them looking at me in so many different ways, and always someone loud trying the paceful sounds of lights.