You are not wearing a hoodie. They are. Women and children and men that seem to know too much and feel too deeply. You are not wearing a hoodie and there are one two three four visible cracks on that wall. On all walls. Wrecked buildings in your eyes. Abandoned. Demolished. Abandoned. Abandoned. Probably occupied. Raw. You don’t think you have any other choice but to be raw. You are not raw. You are cotton candy. You are a 110-pounds pack of Silly Putty. You are melting and you are feigning. Pretending it’s just fine, like you couldn’t care less. You are taking Instagram selfies but you are too light-skinned, even with the black and white filter on. It hurts to pretend. And you are not wearing a hoodie. That church is out-of-order and you don’t know how to pray. You wonder if you should just buy a hoodie and learn how to beg.

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No portes caputxa. Ells sí. Dones i nens i homes que tot ho saben, tot ho senten. Massa. No portes caputxa i la paret té una dues tres quatre esquerdes. Totes les parets en tenen. Fragments de blocs de ciment als teus ulls. Abandonat. Enderrocat. Abandonat. Abandonat. Probablement ocupat. Cru. Només pots ser cru allà. No ets crua. Ets cotó fluix. Ets cinquanta quilos de blandiblub. Et fons i fingeixes. Simules, indiferent, que no t’importa res. Et fas selfies a Instagram però tens la pell massa pàl·lida, fins i tot amb el filtre blanc i negre. Dissimules i dissimilar fa mal. I no portes caputxa. Aquella església està tancada i no saps resar. Et preguntes si hauries de comprar-te una caputxa i aprendre a suplicar.

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