Or not, we live in huge barracks, with atomic elevators that make eleven floors with a jump, concrete towers surrounded by little parks that bring us joy in the day and make us afraid in the evening, when we go home, tired.
We live on the outskirts, and any time of day or night there is someone who walks the dog.
We live on the outskirts. The North Africans drink beer in spite of the religion. Lonely Egyptians listen to music from their mobile phone sitting on the steps of the churches, until the phone rings and then plunge into oceanic calls with all the relatives who have left home. The gipsies fight on the streets and steal clothes destined to charity, risking to be chopped in two by the opening mechanism. The Chinese gorge the slot machines, trying to force them to throw up, shove coins after coins and do not speak with anyone. Someone is walking the dog. The faucet is leaking.