My sustenance
My uniform
My roof.

El Placer. A land of high leaves, a little known space, considered as the place where you find the
stairs to heaven.
Tiny catalogs of sounds,
fans of wide green leaves,
hundreds of resounding leaves that roof the houses,
the cold and sharp blades of the machete,
compose the compendium of a sheet that causes the presence of lines to be read.

When the fans of wide green leaves would get opened, the uncontrolled lines, due to their
extensive length, would end up entangled in the workers’ uniform shirts while they were extracting
the nourishment from El placer.

Not to mention the tiny catalogs of sounds. They were so tiny that hundreds of them could rest in
lines on a zinc sheet to undulate, in this sense, little rustlings on a house roof.

Unlike those sheets, the cold and sharp blades of the machete, being so thin and shiny,
immediately betrayed the overwhelmed lines that confronted the steady cuts of the owner.

The sheet of El Placer contained endless leaves and lines that wanted to have a voice, but they
were so domesticated, that with the little they could tell was enough.