VII

In the interior of the city there is a labyrinth of quotations and lost words. The telephone calls that go unanswered, the ringing that crashes in the dark city of hallways, the unknown regular who stops buying the last drink in the usual bar, the empty chairs, the dead cars, everything that carves a hollow in the soul of the city, everything that looks like the run-over body of a dog, the tainted oil of underground parking garages, the angels abandoned in public gardens, everything forms a web of silences, a labyrinth of secrets and losses.

The crowd crosses over the dry rosebushes, walks lost in thought, does not ask time about love or deception, does not stop to watch the shadow of the helpless. The crowd and the helpless follow the path of the telephonic serpents, of the ringing that goes unanswered. They arrive at the labyrinth that knits the city to its quotations and its lost words.

Granada is the rose without contours, the petal on which the crowd and the helpless step.