Certain day came at my door a very old man. Her age was incalculable. I had the scrambled eggs and graying, hair the same populated beard than on his chest is poured as a stream. He wore a shirt that once had to be green, without pockets, frayed on the bodice and at some points where the neck had been patched up without much care or success; the sleeves were already garnetted stock. Pants may have been black and now it was brownish grey. He donned a few pithy espadrilles from synthetic material.

Despite their impoverished appearance and his face, strangely unwrinkled imbalances, I observed a glimmer of undeniable dignity in his stance.His voice was quite serious and powerful despite the years that should have eroded its phonation apparatus. In her eyes shone a point of enthusiasm and each gesture that had lifted invisible creatures of air and dust that flew by the stay. He brought in his hands an undated, stained and frayed at the edges. ce in this field. Miserable folder made me remember certain closet which had not put in order the week earlier, despite having every intention. I did pass and then guide you to the room.

I have to tell you something, my good friend, told me while he sat on the couch with insolvency and obvious difficulty. You have been the only one that has cared for me and has allowed me to go to the room of your House. I am old and some people think that my words are mere nonsense. He felt itchy in the back of one of his ears and scratched. I seemed to see a halo of static electricity circuir his head and blinking in some variants of the amber in the tip of your hair.