If they only knew. Instead they look at you sideways. They pretend to ignore me. They are not even capable of. I know what it is indifference, that raw, acidic, which will penetrate to the bone as a cold, damp fog. It leaves you alone. Tied only to your despair as an anchor that keeps you afloat thanks to the rancor. Live for revenge. Here, however, is a joke to see these tourists who slip appalled by my actions lenses, which they take for tired and mad, pretending disinterest, but rather are a rosi unhealthy curiosity. Now I can only love them for this because this is my job now, my way of expiation. I am the man who brings order. In everything. Rassetto my bench every night. Collected the cards fall from the pockets of travelers that go dark on the bus to go home, and dreams of those who start imagining a better life. They knew that what they yearn for oxygen fell as here, the burning grease and asphalt apron, do not smile put her face to the window. Not because I do not think about the future can change. No. And their dreams are so trivial, sloppy, slow, do not ever reach them. Word of Firmino. Before them because I have suffered this disappointment. I ran away, do not chase success, I chased the serenity, freedom from crime. I chased the pardon, which the state had given me, but the people do not. None. How could they forgive my crime? A mistake that had killed dozens of people. A small error measured in 28 mm. The distance that separated them between two buttons. An exchange rail. The deafening sound of the crash is still my ears much hatred that followed. The first was mine for them absurdity of my guilt to blast their death as a salvation. Their nails, I dry but alive, to bring to life, but you could call it life ', the sign marked on the skin right into the soul. How I wanted to be in their place! I did not understand. Then came the hatred of parents: do not spare even a drop in donarmelo. I understood them. I could not reciprocate. I did maybe I would forgive them. Instead I stayed there, in the process, head down. I was looking for a sign, a trace, although small, to make sense. Then came the mutual hatred to people of my country: they had not done wrong than to be born there. But it was too big for me to forgive him. I gave it back, that bitterness, cold, dry, purple, almost rational, because I felt betrayed. And fled. By train. Funny is not it? How to dodge a killer's fate relies on the gun. The Executioner and his gallows. It was when I came here that I understood. There was a road. It was a meeting I can not say that I surrendered the view. Not because I had lost. Why had not I ever had. More than blindness had myopia: I did not see farther than me, the surface of what was important for me. And he showed me what was behind it, was like turning the paper, turn the glove. Draw his sword. Suddenly I saw everything darker, because the truth must be sought. Only then will you give. He knew the root, the formula, the trick. And I realized that my task was to restore the order that my crime had been smashed. I had to reverse the entropy. Restore peace in the hearts of all, no choices. As no decisions had killed one hundred fifty-three people that unfortunate night.
If they only knew. Perhaps instead of slipping away, strutting and distracted me worth at least a look of hatred. What I know to reciprocate and subtracted them, to deny the taste of revenge, of parts. This is also tidy.
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