A flood of sadness began to flood the streets of the maze of happiness, and in the blink of an eye the expanse of excitement overtook us. It was an extension of the sensationalism that loomed over the indelible but fleeting city. One would think that everything was already decided, that monotony had managed to reproduce and possess Alberto, that fatigue and exhaustion had managed to neutralize the magic of the supernatural. Poor innocent and suspicious people, short-sighted towards the extraordinary. Yes, the real thing had gone out, But if this party has anything going for it, it is that it is more capable than ever of surviving even in its own dying phase.Who knows how to recover and ends with the confidence that he has healed all souls.
The staunch soldiers of the resistance battalion prepared themselves, seven out of seven soldiers wrote in their souls. You can call them Jartibles, although I prefer to call them dreamers, occasionally bohemians, white-collar thieves who clean out the wallet of life at the door of the April Bank to avoid that hit until summer. They were not going to fail, “until the body can bear it,” said a blonde woman dressed in flamenco, who was pushing a cart and still walking as if Fishing Saturday was yesterday. Yes it is. Families interacted with visiting tape players, who told tales of times gone by. «The thing Luisito liked most was the miniflamenqueen», The boy, who had his hair combed into a cowlick and was wearing shorts, a shirt and suspenders, nodded while shooting bubbles from the small gun. “Come on, get us one of these, another of the cuttlefish, a tortilla and wait, one, two, three, five! Five chicken sandwiches.”
The sentiment of those who were already reading the letter from memory collided with the spirit of brotherhood of the province. The townspeople passed by the gate gazing excitedly. Women took pictures which were instantly uploaded to WhatsApp status, Just beneath an arch, a man in a polo holding his daughter in his arms was having a video call with her mother, the girl’s grandmother. She pressed her face to the screen, the tired beads of her eyes revealing a smile, a smile of the healthiest jealousy that had ever existed.
There are so many fairs in one fair, There are so many little nooks and crannies in the book of the same thing, so many valid meanings for the same sentimentThe word joy has many meanings. Oh, there are so many perspectives on the sanctity scale. This, of course, is what is distinctive about this earthly Eden: the diversity of the unlike, the multiplicity of the different. It is a fair of those who have not been able to come, a fair of Sevillians who, because of work, have not been able to come and have scratched their faces when somewhere on the planet they have given up on work. This year has been the same for my friend Pedro, who, as a drastic measure to the anxiety caused by not being able to set foot on Albero, decided to uninstall Instagram, Twitter and silence the messages of six groups. He promised me to read these accounts after the fire, when there was no longer any possibility of making the foolishness of buying a ticket and donning a suit to reach the Holy Land.
There’s friendship fest, of coastal kissing along the vein on the neck, while the group turns the booth upside down after saying goodbye for the umpteenth time. There is a fair of people who honor the memory of a father who was equally serious and good, who for one week in the year would go without hesitation to the same place where he would now bring them the flowers of his happiness Are. Someone I love and admire was telling me the other day while we were ordering a cubata that a portion of his old man’s ashes are right where he spent the best moments of his life. Were, that is, where we were. I would venture to say that the teen’s ruffian and ruffian fair and the grandparent’s deaf palm frolic are equally restorative., Fair of premium chamomile and of the man with the 5J plate and the white hat, who yesterday, when the afternoon lowered its arms to give way to the last morning, cracked his hands while touching a cane in the corner of a district booth. Yes, these are fairs that are different in form, but similar in essence. I mention their faces. Every day has its own parsley, its own art break, its own excuse to keep going. He was once again at ease in the labyrinth of the “righteous ones.” My friend Pedro, who had a birthday, appeared and everything around us took on meaning again. If Seville did not exist, there would be no need to invent it, no one would be foolish enough to believe they could reproduce the unobtainable. If Seville did not exist, we would have to leave wherever we were and go on a pilgrimage in search of it. Gentlemen, Seville cannot be invented, it is a dream come true. A steady Friday.