All Spanish cities are surrounded by a mesh of streets without houses and roads without a destination. They are grids, the grids of desire with which other generations tried to capture the countryside. Those were busy days then, full of concrete and lines and long thoughts. But after the shouting and the bulldozers, after the obscene muttering of money in everyone's heads, the weeds never blossomed into a city and only silence remained. The countryside, which has always been asleep, gave us back again the beautiful silences of our childhood when we went there at sunset.

 

We were born, played and lived in those nameless streets, that wild and sharp land, between endless rows of electrical boxes. Hidden behind a brick shed and a wire fence we had our secret shelter, and from it we set out to conquer the mysterious and remote realm of the shadowless pavements. To us belongs the oblivion of what we have never known otherwise, and the bitter memory of our parents, who pretended to build a country made of second homes, second children and second cars.