The guy who hit him in the school now has a boy and a tie. We greeted each other with the formality that the years have taught us, love lost for years in two kisses on the cheek. Tells me about his boy and his new tie. I can look myself in those four black hairs coming out of his shirt. Has grown up, indeed. Long before any of us. It has done more in the sense that others always believed that one became larger. Has a wife, a son and a job. As I speak with him noticed how the architecture of the town is messing with my boots. I come again, yes, but had long quand did not feel the people as architecture, as palpable reality detached from the group of people whose love and esteem kept me tied to this place. (Also the memories, of course, adolescence, being small, when the guy who hit at school did not yet have a child or a tie, but perhaps he thought about it to forget all of us).
The people as architecture becomes a palpable reality around me. The first thing I notice is the absence of beauty. Were it not for the memories any of these streets would be meaningless. Not a boyfriend or a formal, not a site you love and, perhaps, and if I hurry, it is not agar small horrendous proportions. There is no way to escape the people as architecture. May ignore a time, you can cover your eyes, but eventually end up finding all this ugliness in front of your face.
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