The wall of adobe brick and later had been there since the seventeenth century and at other times, was the separation between a true paradise and a whole hell. Inside, the monks, Dominicans on this occasion, enjoyed their silly soup daily poverty of his garden, his ora et labora, and from the other side of that wall, dominating the time and our lives to touch the bell metal of its cloister.
lighting at that time would not be very different from what is now.
modernity posed a national highway near the wall and turned in a gray track and made it appear the bricks in some peeling.
walled Postmodernism windows overlooking the ancient and national highways that have become a gray track road to Madrid. Flashing amber traffic light, declares unnecessarily that is no longer the obligatory stop in the middle of a village where the children woke up to ask how was the trip back from the Souths uncertain and sunny.
The window frames a piece of that wall on the other side of the road. Wrinkles, the melancholy of more transits, and hope when, from the end of the street hear the footsteps of a passerby that goes, fleetingly, in front the altarpiece for a long time motionless on her living room. Inside the light is yellow and withered at the bottom of the TV room now ... vomit is now marking time, dominates our lives are echoes of their empty flat screen ...
Those who pass through here now are lost ... and all ... as usual ... since the wall is wall ...
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