Almost nothing is enough to supply the days, but the rain was missing. Here in Madrid it has been raining for a few hours, although it seems like three winters in a row. The morning hangs on a cold hook. The thunder was not heard, if any. At 9.10 I put both feet on the ground. The room was duller than yesterday. The light was brown and came slowly to us, like a bird flying quietly. There are things that are only thought at very critical moments. Nineteenth day of confinement.
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