Barcelona. Un dissabte al matí.

Neil Young's words

Words (between the lines of age)

Someone and someone were down by the pond
Looking for something to plantbin the lawn,
Out in the fields their were turning the soil
I'm sitting here hoping this water will boil.

When I look through the window and out on the road
They're bringing me presents and saying hello,
Singing words, words
Between the lines of age,
Words, words
Between the lines of age.

If I was a junkman selling you cars,
Washing your windows and shining your stars,
Thinking your mind was my own in a dream,
What you would wonder and how it seem?

Living in castles a bit at a time,
The king started laughing and talking in rhyme,
Singing words, words
Between the lines of age,
Words, words
Between the lines of age.

.....................................................................................

I believe in you

Now that you've found yourself losimg your mind
Are you here again?
Finding that what you once thought was real
Is gone and changing.
Now that you made yourself love me
Do you think I can change it in a day?
How can I place you above me?
Am I lieing to you when I say
That I believe in you.

Coming to you at night,
I see my questions, I feel my doubts,
Wishing that maybe in a year or two
We could laugh and let it all out.
Now that you made yourself love me
Do you think I can change it in a day?
How can I place above me?
Am I lieing to you when I say
That I believe in you?

Bona nit

L'última imatge abans de tancar els ulls: 

La porta ajustada, deixa entreveure la tènue foscor del passadís. Se sent l'agulla del rellotge de la cuina caminar segon a segon (tic-tac, tic-tac, tic-tac).
Dos armaris lletjos just enfront meu, fets de melamina que imita les siluetes de la fusta autèntica. Dins d'aquests, hi dormen pilons de roba que fa més de dues dècades que va plegar i desar la meva àvia.
A mà dreta un balancí, ara quiet, sobre el qual seu un ninot de plàstic amb els ulls negres que em mira fixament. 
Unes sabates. 
Una cadira amb roba al damunt.
Una calaixera pintada de color gris, amb els poms d'un daurat desgastat, i unes flors groguenques dibuixades a banda i banda de cada calaix. 
I a mà esquerre el llit. 
Hi ha algú estirat, tapat amb un cobrellit, escrivint en un ordinador. Ara em mira fixament...