Hats, waiters and solitudes, empty spaces on an empty oil in a clear city of empty corners. We are in 1942 and the shadows from the war with their cinematic view. Is it inspired in Hemingway? Does it matter? Loneliness again, killers waiting for their victims, a red haired woman with a red haired dress with a red haired soul. It’s time to kill for money, it’s time to dead for nothing, time to live without dreams, time to spend, time to cry, time to wait in a lonely bar, time to lose and time to wake up. Downtown, Greenwich Village, we are again in the city I love and I hate: envy and money, much money and more money than I can ever dream and, when I got it, it disappeared in my hands. Was it a dream? May you take a look inside your mind? It’s cold in New York City, it’s a cold world of hot brushes. What do you think, red haired woman? Do you like the man with the grey hat? We are again in the city that lights bright more than hearts, the city with more illusions than perspectives, the city with more souls than people. It’s late at night but the night is close. We can face the Death. Does it matter, Mr. waiter? Hopeless predators, full time heart killers. We can imagine a clean hell of hats and hearts in closed brushstrokes. Can you feel my hand now? It’s composed of dreams and deceptions, falling hours in an office in the financial district… there, where the city ended and now, where the world of dishonesties begins. It was a time to forget that three little kids played in a lonely garden once, far away from the war in Europe, far away from the muted lights in the big spiritless megalopolis. Give me the secret of happiness, show me the face of the dead soldier far away from the ocean. We are now smoking our last cigarette before the war, before the madness, before the beginning of the end, we are now smoking the ashes of time and glory, the ashes of hope, the ashes of a nation that will contemplate their children graves. It’s time now for the great hope of a secure death, for the great hope of a world without illusions, for the great hope of a world without people. The dream is now beyond four men without deceptions. It’s time now to believe.
Some words about Hopper’s Nighthawks by Martin Cid
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