Emanuele Rossi. Catcher imperfections (№ 33068)

Time walked and walked, harmless, indifferent, closed in on itself. Tequila has ended. The people in the bar a bit. Person new, but looks the same. The walking boredom, personified in the ghostly fingers that twirled the glasses that they would be reflected in the sparkling surface of the tables. Women, big and strong, like a glass of whiskey without ice. Men, at whose head one work, and on the faces of all those imperfections. Young men, trapped in an alien environment, drinking coffee, trying to keep up appearances. Kind of sloppy, but to the regulars it is far. There are five or six men: all different, full of mystery; of their boxes, covered with bones and skin; there are hidden deeds and dreams, a hidden common to all reality or imperfections, which will eventually show up.