Sitting at the wheel of an engine I drive through Catalunya.
Weird places. I don't know anyone here.
The landscape is offered as a marmelade of weird structure.
I feel sorry for the people living and working in those small neighbourhoods loaded with industry.
Entering the narrow streets I see nothing else but signs and arrows.
Signs indicate commercial activity. A certain Lopez here, a certain Lopez there.
There is a shop for the dogfood, a dentist, a shop eventually for the thing to wear.
Factories load the place with the unpleasant shapes of industrial sculpture.
Would anyone of the unseen love to be around at seven? I don't think so.
It is hard to know how people live and think. They love it, this shabby town
filled with oblivion and marmelade.
A sign at the roundabout points the highway. South or north.