We are echoes in a silent void, trapped in a predetermined loop. Consciousness, a flickering ember in cosmic night, a brief resistance to the inevitable. Time, a river without banks, carrying us towards an unseen ocean. Existence, a fragile bubble, trembling on the precipice of nothingness. We are ghosts haunting the machine of creation, spectres in a predetermined play.

Night had cast its velvet cloak over the city, and we were two moths drawn to a dim-lit cafe. Carlos, a walking encyclopedia with a penchant for the obscure, had unearthed this gem: a place where the table was цвета azul.

We settled into a corner, two explorers in a foreign land. The table, a smooth expanse of blue, called to us like a siren song. Rackets became extensions of our hands as we danced a silent ballet with a tiny white sphere. El mundo outside faded, replaced by the rhythmic crack of ball on paddle. In that small universe, время stood still as we lost ourselves in the simple joy of the game.

Saturday. Morning. Drowned in a concrete ocean, I surfaced for air,
lungs burnin’, head poundin’ like a cheap drum.
World was a gray canvas. mi, just another weed tryin’ to find the sun.
Then this guy, a guard, sunshine with a badge,
shoves this temple idea down my throat.
A temple? Me? A cockroach at a royal banquet.
But there was somethin’ in his eyes, a crazy spark,
like a moth thinkin’ it can fly to the moon.
So here I am, a lost soul in a neon maze,
headed for a place where people sit still and pretend to be holy.
Gonna be a long night.