I walk at night.
You can keep mornings, with the aftershave of salesmen, rush hour…with the Starbucks lines and hair perfectly
well done.
(Mafalda says that everything good in life messes up your hair)
You can have the morning with its blinding light, its lack of nuances…leave the night to blur lines, to hide and to reveal.
The morning of road warriors, weekend warriors, commute warriors, checkers of life’s milestones – I lost count, and it is not my race.
Leave me the profound night, let me walk at hours of my choosing, when empty streets whispher poetry lines, if you just listen.
This is my queendom, let me patrol my land of empty office buildings, of Mexican night workers, of quiet and shadows.
The night of orange streetlights, of vacant lots and sleeping churches.
Of red windows, where the artists burn.
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