I knew it, I knew the last train had left the station long ago. That train that could have taken me to marvelous moorlands where love and warmth would bathe me constantly, where life would never again lose its colors, where my name would be safe from all harm in that sweet voice.
Now the only thing left was to leave for that other city: the one where deserters and runaways take refuge in abandoned bars, where bitter liquor is drunk, where the scent of flowers is replaced by tobacco smoke thickening on the ceiling, where any name is an insult and where the closest thing to “love” can be bought for fifteen hundred and almost always lasts less than an hour.
Photography by Alejandro Muñoz Aguadero
