El Pleito

Rubber burns - behind it a trail of smoke and all past mistakes, like a shadow on the back seat. A box of shadows in the mirror, while time quietly crumbles away, like old streets underfoot. Asking for both silver and lead is almost a businesslike gesture, but it sounds like a plea at the cash register: “more, please.” My great-grandmother's house is now almost foreign, the boundaries don't pass - they come and stay, like stains on a map. The heart is scratched, but it stands; the wound is not a sentence, but a reminder with thorns. Something heavy and at the same time funny: too much - and still not enough, so the choice is simple and rebelliously warm - choose yourself.