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Ideas

The imperfect measure (incipit)


Sunk into the old walls of the city, down a path oppressive, it was said that the Armenian latrine was the cave of hell where the lost souls of the sinners. It could be that the smell of piss glued to the stone for centuries resembled the stench of the devil, but it was a story made up to scare children because, for the people in the market, that dark place he had a basic utility. Despite this, no one had showed up to repair the fault, a few weeks ago, he had drained the pipes, and you can see that tempers were heated and also that, not knowing who to blame, who prevailed at the end of the resignation.
But one morning in August, a sign prohibiting the entry for work had rekindled the hopes of the oldest merchant market. He had been patient until nearly noon, but then, as things seemed to be going for long, was moving towards the service station over the Citadel gate praying to the Lord that was the last time and did not know that would have been satisfied.

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