books are spreading like moss, are conquering more and more space of the room as a silent army to take positions, can rest, rearm and attack again, now taking yet another shelf, more unstable position, later the bedside table, then forming a column in a forgotten corner, beating Mahou position to empty and the laundry, columns, rows, stacks of books about science, young English novel, the essays of Montaigne proud and entered into meat contrasting with the thinness of the poets who wrote little and died young but lasted long, as Jaime Gil de Viedma, as Arthur Rimbaud, that at night whispers and flutters his breath of absinthe into the room. Some of these invaders have read books, others only have flipped, with others still have not had the chance, I know that many, perhaps most, never the read, but there are, Saturday morning watch their backs while they sleep and I speak from another time, when came into my hands and by what person or what editorial fluke of fate or what. Payment each month does not know how many euros to rent do not know how many cubic meters of housing (certainly too) filled with printed paper which contains the voice of people on another site or that is already rotting underground. I think, as its proliferation scared from under the blanket, that someday I will have to leave this room and this house because they continue to advance ruthless, without concern, to throw me out with his lyrics. I, like a small apartment who puts her lover in the Gran Via, they keep paying the rent from afar, perhaps from under a bridge wrapped in newspapers, reading before bedtime, Media Markt advertising.
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