In contrast to the swirling descent of the largest street, right next to the river, a burnished sidewalk gives way to echos, in obedience to the universal scale of the stiffness of each one’s soles. Under the greenish and worn porch, a woman sows some coins in the unfathomable depths of her small purse while holding (in an awkward elbow grip) the bag with the rosary she just bought. The rules left over from the initial urban trip dictate that there is always room for the improbable when the story goes on without wanting to take a break- and so (without reason or excuse) a house of games of fortune serves as an attic to the store of religious items, where an old Saint Lazarus perpetually bows to the crutches they gave him. The yellowish leisure of the hours is sworn down the street by the colors of leather waiting for some feet, escaping the metallic sheen of that novelty from the eighties (which someone will still want). Nothing remains when changing direction. Not even the faint smile of a path cut around the polished corner of the shoe store. Not even that. Perhaps a shiver, a solemn awakening of the stubbornness of the senses, provoked by the dense and delayed smell of the spice mixture that comes from the grocery store – in a colorful display, half a dozen steps away from the little wine cup that was left empty.