LATE of rain there are times that one does not know what to do. Especially if afternoon with mansa and uninterrupted rain for companion, is getting closer to the uncertain evening time. n Jr. is the source. It does neither cold nor heat and rain not whips but slips. There, very far away, the angels play, stay, bowling that well told it when, small, it snapped. The House is alone and we do not have neither radio nor television.

We have chosen, my wife and I, the silence of misinformation as companion to evenings when we return from work. This allows us to talk about our things, our concerns, our joys, our projects, our children, our grandchildren’s needless us flee from House to speak or have the imperative need to talk with others, as happens to many people. Now the House is alone my wife has had to leave to visit his sister, now, I too only rain on the glass of the window draws changing curves that barely let see shades of gray that are approaching. Curves that, as aqueous Bayadere, you distort the lights that appear in the Windows of buildings opposite, doing imagine, beyond, arabesques of conflation fire. Too late to pull the finger by moldings of the jambs and the edge of the bookstore and the spine of the books read books, lovingly, over and over again my grandfather, my father, I, my wife, our children perhaps any of them my great-grandfather hope that also our grandchildren Dumas, Verne, Salgari, Curwood, Grey, London, May, Palacio ValdesGibson, Wells, Gadner, Christie, Kirby, Forester, Becquer, Alarcon, Coronado, Valera, Samaniego, Campoamor, Castro, Fernandez de Moratin, Salinas, Alvarez Quintero, dry Munoz, Perez Galdos, Blasco Ibanez, Linares, Perez and Perez, Ibsen, Balzac, Hugo, Dostoyevsky, Mann, Green, Steinbeck, Lafuente Estefania Si.