Ventanas quebradas


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The rain rattles like small-shot in the leaves. Tin roofs, peeling posters, broken windows. All the elements of a bad adventure. The smell is of open sewage, the rain is battering, machine gun rattatattling, on the tin roof. It makes such a din, that rain on the tin roof, all of the sounds of human suffering are muted.

He escaped while being transported. In the concatenation of rain jack hammering, his escape could hardly be noticed. His escape could hardly be noticed, his footprints filled with water and were lost before morning.

In the morning there was a wet and dripping sun, hanging off of leaf ends, dangling on gutters, rolling silently down into the black earth. The morning hung sullen in the yellow sky. Air brakes howled, sirens screamed, rails rattled, asphalt steamed. He crawled out from the culvert, stood up and stretched. Not the best day of his life, but a good day to be alive.   

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