The old one

How many times did a city die in the hands of man, movies and wars?

I have heard nagging, rhythmical complaints of diluted pipes and carcinogenic clocks.

They want to be listened for those who has no earthly time, concerns and polluted passions and it seems a symphony every midnight imploring to be renewed.

But the old houses, buildings, tunnels, railroads and sepia lights don’t pay attention because they are old, and so it goes.

The city wants to die because that is what the old things do. It moves and eat and spit out her own guts every night and her own sounds and measure lights make the people believe that is alive.

And she wears the name of New while the time scattered her intentions. But it’s not her fault, everyone once in life hang on to something that don’t want to let go.

Only the old people can’t sleep at night when they have been through hard times, that’s why we all leave the lights on for her, because she is just waiting the perfect time to drop her bridges and say: Hello Gojira, nice to meet you finally!


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