Under the wrath of the storms and the lightning strikes that light up the skies, we have the heat. The heavy nights, the sound of the fan that spits out in a closed circuit the mugginess of the rooms. And the droplets that appear on the foreheads, the acid skins in the air-conditioned trains and the crimson-tinged tired-looking faces.
For those who tread upon the scorching pavements, for want of grains of sand that could be tickling our feet, we want the choice of being able to escape by other means. When music pounds the body, the mind always pulls through.
Partagez cet article sur Facebook :
À propos de l'auteur :