Untitled No. 3, by Sigúr Rós

The fresh morning air running thru my lungs. But it is too pure for me, so I mess it up with a cigarrette. The first cigarrette of the day. I get to my usual spot in Parque México, a bench nearby the small lake. I observe the usual people. The beautiful thirty year old lady, walking her two dogs. The old man walking his German Shepperd. The first sun beams passing thru the trees, while I close my eyes and concentrate in the piano scale repeated over and over again thru the 6.33 minutes the song lasts. This part of the park has become too affluent.
The following day I change my location and move where the tower with the clock is. New usual people, a man with his guitar who stares at me, an old lady with yellow pants and sweatshirt, the cafeteria across the street. The same song. Nothing changes in the end. The piano, the people, the same routine for five or six months.