And so, without more, we get into a museum. With the others of the panda, to give us a lot, a dip, to give us a tribute, a chupinazo. We are all there, recording with the camera, shooting right and left. The works look at us stunned. They do not believe what they see, all that outrage, the bottle, with the wollet wielded.
Now going to the museum is getting into the car, ahincar, break through the mogollón. There we are crowded with hallway, wanting to sneak out, but there are no exits, only one room, and another room, and another, and more. We are going from prey in prey, every pill, piled up, as if the whole flock were meats, cattle, who rush to be stuffed, so that they go to the slaughterhouse, the sea that is to die.
Before the canvases you could see, that is, to go ahead without being taken from there to push. You stop in front, the blacks, the whites, they wandered your eye. There was also a lot of leg, a lot of neckline, where to look. You sucked your fingers, savoring the thigh, the garlic of the eye, and so you stayed there like a mirror that does not want anyone to take away from the medium.
They were other times, from when one could become a monk, take off the beret, go and return in the blink of eyes, from night to day, from life to death, from work to art. For some of the canvases you had to go to Mass, kneel before the altar, to then turn right, and plant in front of that infinity that are the three Caravaggio who are in the chapel of San Luis de los French, in one of the churches of Rome, to a couple of blocks from a Navona square where there is no longer an ice cube at rush hour.
Now the beasts graze all the lares. There they teach the nose for the meadows, on the slopes of the museums. They expect the gates to open and then take the ticket offices, as if this were the sales, a black Friday, or a red Saturday. Sometimes the speakers are heard, so that the landings and takeoffs are made in order, that you do not cut your wings, you barely get through the lanes. There we go, then, inside the cars, straight to the canvases, and ahead of them we pass, kicking, wiggling the butt, fast, it will not be that they give us a grenade.
There we go with the rest of the mob, and there is no one who grazes quietly. In the Vatican Museum there is also a Caravaggiobut more sad, you can barely browse, give it a couple of flags and leave quickly by the drain with the rest of the tide. They spend another embarrassment, Koreans, French, meringues, alpacas, all have come down from their highlands, out of their cover. They have escaped from the slaughterhouse and here you have them berreando, giving the tail, making its way between the other mares.
The visit is lengthened, suddenly the funnel deflates. Each one on his side spreads around the city, with his migns under his arm, with the schedules in the feet template. What a laziness, we still have to disembark in the colosseum, to swallow the Trevi. We get through the streets, with others, looking for an exhaust valve, a screw to tighten. But, neither way, there is also no way to stop, and so we go with the rest of the flood, passing in front of the showcases, of the garments without aprons or buttocks, only prices, thinns, teasing.
And so we arrive at the hotel, soaked, with the comilona in the throat. We stayed somewhat stunned, embossed, we ask ourselves what happened, where we have gotten into, in what mouth we have gone. Then we remember the fads, the stores, we remember the museums and stores, and everything is mixed in the cogote. We stayed as dissected animals, lying on the beds. Art is, without a doubt, after the dominance of fire, the greatest invention of humanity.
Hence the perplexity to what has just happened, this dip. The teachers who look at us as legions are the descendants of Altamira, of those who plowed the earth, observed the sky, were of legacy in legacy, expanding what was never seen, sailing towards a unknown land. There they have put their lives, gestures, grimaces, faces, looks, tell us, for example, in the Sistinethat God is in mind, not out of it. And from that, we barely realize because they already take us to the exit, as soon as we have entered, we barely give us time to swallow an air balloon, which we enter apnea and we go through the next funnel.
And there, stuck in the formalol bottle, put in the hotel bed, we then look for the occasional outcome to this hall, to this nightmare. We then turn in bed, we look for our lips, and then, we know it, life squeezes, the rest, out there, was nonsense, something like that, without more.