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“I’d rather you shot at tin cans in the back yard, but I know you’ll go after birds. Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit ‘em, but remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” 
To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee

Found the dead body of a pigeon (or that, at least, is what it looked like, kind of difficult to determine with certainty due to a lack of head) on my way back from Flohschanze flea market last Saturday at around 1 pm, the second most useless hour of the day just surpassed by 11 am. The innocent creature of our Lord had been decapitated by something or someone who surely had nothing to do with our Lord, probably due to various reasons, usually whiskey. The poor thing's guts were all scattered on the ground, with subtle touches of blood and dog's urine here and there. People passing by glanced at it without amazement, and none of them took their hats off to say the Lord's Prayer to it. I can't imagine what this flying being existence was like, the struggles it went through, the lights and shadows of its lifetime, how many bread crumbs offered by mammal strangers it declined. But its trivial, worthless death looked like the most passionate, graceful thing I saw that day. One can never be thankful enough for the truth and the beauty.

All pictures taken on the 23rd April 2016 in the surroundings of Uhlandstraße U-Bahn station in Hamburg, Germany.

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In the days of my youth I was told what it means to be a man. Now I’ve reached that age, I’ve tried to do all those things the best I can. No matter how I try, I find my way to the same old jam.” Dónde está la poesía en tiempos de sobrevolar la vida real. Justo por encima de unos labios muy de mentira, muy usados por mucha gente. Que no se toquen, ni se mezclen, no vaya a ser que surja el amor, y se abandonen el uno al otro en el nombre de la verdad. Way way down inside, I’m gonna give ya my love. I’m gonna give ya every inch o’ my love, I’m gonna give ya my love.” Pensé que estaría sintiendo algo tan sublime o agridulce que no hallaría las palabras adecuadas que anotar sobre el cuaderno. Sin embargo, la indiferencia, más una pseudo-emoción pseudo-fingida con melancolía de viajero mochilero, amortiguan mi mente de toda exaltación posible, a la manera de un airbag de viento y tripas. Escribí unas cuantas cartas de despedida que, según yo, no sentí. Derramé unas cuantas lágrimas sobre ellas que, según yo, se cayeron solas por un método Stanislavski natural del ser humano, un automatismo lacrimal que ve te quieros y jamases juntos y debe llorar, mientras el corazón lee el teletexto. No sé si hay algo que me importe lo suficiente como para elevar mi vida a la transcendencia, dejar de creer que aquí hemos venido a morir. Ya no sé qué clase de persona soy, a qué me atengo, todos los lugares son demasiado aleatorios para mi gusto. Esperaba sentir algo más que lo que estoy sintiendo, algo más que lo que siento cuando despierto cada mañana bajo la misma luz y el mismo techo. Ojalá me hirvieran las venas y me avisaran de que hoy es el día en el que todo cambia, pero nunca he sido así, no veo señales, no se me aparece el Espíritu Santo ni Elvis ni nadie, Hollywood [sic] I've given you all and now I'm nothing. Sólo es otro día para aprender a ser un hombre, nada más.

Todas las fotografías tomadas entre el 29 de febrero y el 3 de marzo de 2016 alrededor de St Georg, Jungfernstieg y HafenCity, Hamburgo, Alemania.

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Well I always play russian roulette in my head

"Yes'm," The Misfit said as if he agreed. "Jesus shown everything off balance. It was the same case with Him as with me except He hadn't committed any crime and they could prove I had committed one because they had the papers on me. Of course," he said, "they never shown me my papers. That's why I sign myself now. I said long ago, you get you a signature and sign everything you do and keep a copy of it. Then you'll know what you done and you can hold up the crime to the punishment and see do they match and in the end you'll have something to prove you ain't been treated right. I call myself The Misfit," he said, "because I can't make what all I done wrong fit what all I gone through in punishment." 
There was a piercing scream from the woods, followed closely by a pistol report. "Does it seem right to you, lady, that one is punished a heap and another ain’t punished at all?"  
"Jesus!" the old lady cried. "You've got good blood! I know you wouldn't shoot a lady! I know you come from nice people! Pray! Jesus, you ought not to shoot a lady. I'll give you all the money I've got!" 
"Lady," The Misfit said, looking beyond her far into the woods, "there never was a body that give the undertaker a tip." 
There were two more pistol reports and the grandmother raised her head like a parched old turkey hen crying for water and called, "Bailey Boy, Bailey Boy!" as if her heart would break. 
"Jesus was the only One that ever raised the dead," The Misfit continued, "and He shouldn't have done it. He shown everything off balance. If He did what He said, then it's nothing for you to do but throw away everything and follow Him, and if He didn't, then it's nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can, by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him. No pleasure but meanness," he said, and his voice had become almost a snarl.
Excerpt from A Good Man Is Hard to Find, by Flannery O'Connor

All pictures taken at Hamburger DOM (Hamburg, Germany) between 18th and 20th March 2016. Inspired by Tom Waits' Blood Money (2002), the play written by Georg Büchner he wrote the album for, Woyzeck, and A Good Man Is Hard to Find (1955), Flannery O'Connor's short story that titled its last song.

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Good bye to a little man who, at least for the last 30 years, could only run a competition in bigness with himself. His stilettos were so high above us that we could not even see him at times. Sleep well Prince, your Texas blow dry and most-awkward-love-scene-ever in Purple Rain (1984) will haunt me for ever, but let's go crazy.