El tiempo pasa tan rápido aquí, you know, like if somebody was robbing you. You shouldn’t forget that. That day. Esas navidades. Ese polvo acumulado entre las dos ventanas.
And the freezing cold. And all the post-it on the wall. And the names. And the quotes. And your great-grandmother. And your father crying because, ¿quién podría creerlo?
Y el hombre saltando por la ventana. A lo mejor tenía miedo a morir quemado. A lo mejor, viendo el surrealismo dominante, pensó que podía volar.
- Who is he?
- Un amigo.
- ¿Un amigo o tu novio, eh?
- Un amigo que murió en el World Trade Center.
And your fucking face. Inexpressive. It’s not easy to get through those tears. But who cares, diez años son insuficientes para borrar ese rictus del skyline de la ciudad.
“I steal small things from my friends to keep memories of how much I love them.”
And this won’t stop. Not this year. Not the next one. Not the other. And it’s not bad at all, because all of you must remind the fucking pain that killed that boy, that girl, that kid who was waiting his father after school, y él nunca apareció. Porque no debéis olvidar(les).
Because you know, a lo major pensó que podia volar.
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