Important people gather round buildings with walls of large windows, high ceilings and staircases with metal railings that lead up to the mezzanine of vases on marble countertops.
He sits in chairs placed around a rectangular coffee table which supports the cafes and the New York Times. All around are pictures, erect on the walls, reviewing the slopes together. Talk about things that do not belong, do deals without shaking the dolls, unsigned papers. Speech, insults and put on the coffee table, stacked and tied with a band of other paper. Use fine suits, has blond mustache and strange smile.
His eyes roam the perimeter of the circle coffee table before getting up and nodded with pride. Walk to the elevators, leaving behind his footsteps to those responsible for opening the doors and down the red carpet. He sits in the back seat of the car without giving directions to drivers or wrinkle the pants pockets to fall. His shiny shoes go through the front yard to the door firmly shut behind them.
In the city there is a pale voice, whispering through the streets, filtered by the imperceptible cracks in the windows of cars for the locks, portfolios, penetrating throats, eyeballs, and delivers gifts to attract the poor with carols and crosses, kneels on the carpet imported from the house and smiles upon those who remain on their shoes, and is long, not hurried but has many mansions and flats round to visit .
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