Death of a worker.
His body lay on the lot, his legs invaded the space assigned for the elevator, his hands crossed the lines of the stairs.
The dead tend to overstep limits.
Nobody wants to die in a corner
we prefer to be crushed by the weight of the floor.
Engulfed by the formwork.
Houses that are sustained by generational blood, and the generosity of the dead,
who do not want to have a niche, cannot afford it either.
But they do require a name in the guest book, a name, something they lacked in life, hopefully a nickname, referring to their deformity or their absences.
Who will remember me? Who do I want to remember me?
not the helmet,
nor the railing,
nor the body that sustained a life,
nothing held back my fall.
I needed to hear in the first person,
the creaking of my skull,
feel the fading of my little consciousness, more concerned about the result,
that of desire.
Die.
Death,
it is no longer new,
nor is it gravity.
Death,
it's just a consequence.
an evidence,
a prudence before the nonsense of eternity.