The Soil

Same that it knew would not come back. With that expensive I went to come back? He is funny, but I still have a little of dignity. Other closed cars pass of glass. The people inside of its metallic ortalezas do not know there, do not make idea of as it is the life it are here, in the gutter. Between one she programs and another one I obtain grana to have what to eat and of time in when meeting a place to live. In the house of some men until volume bath and I receive clothes.

But I nor know why still I make this I could die of time, of truth, but for me he is not thus so simple. He is funny as great part of the people if he becomes attached to the life, although all the difficulties. Game the cigarette in a next culvert to the curb. The street is empty. They only exist plus ones bodies of three or four beggars sleeping, rolled in covers, but are not people. They are not human.

They are only played dirty rags in the soil. Beings that fight for the survival day after day, being that already they are not more livings creature. They are ' ' coisas' ' , that as well as I if had not fit in the society. They are remaining portions and nothing more. I nor know that day of the week is today. A clock is 00h25min as that I earned in one of my programs. I am tired to be in foot. Jib some steps and I sit down in the soil, leaned in the wall. My body fede the sex and the cigarette. Step a lipstick in the lips and a little of perfume for the body. My function in this world is this: To serve the men.