One day the man with the colored umbrella with cats and flowers walked by car in a busy street and at one point saw a confused spot on the perimeter of the perception.
He realized that it was not just a stain, “help,” he said, when the man walked beside her, or he.
The man with the colored umbrella of flowers and cats and words took off his rorschach shirt made of illusions, dreams, and hopes, and left it planing near the confused spot, and the others did not or hit it.
He stopped the car and ran to him or her, and the others did not even hit the man because somewhat confused and distorted they saw themselves on the ground, along with the multicolored and abstract shirt.
He picked up the confused spot, now true and outlined and miraculously, lightly button of life, clinging desperately to life, and keeping every straight, muscle and atom in line as straight as possible, because any misalignment would be fatal if he or she He had survived.
With his firm hands but trembling he carried the stain with him, and his shirt made him look like a pilgrim in the middle of the street, then a crazy, one to insult, who gutteth doors and growls, gives orders, prays, who nurses, Who waits, he cries in silence and prays again.
And then the man with the umbrella with the colored umbrella of words, dreams, and cats with his shirt made of madness, comes home with a new brother.
But there in the middle of the road there is still a stain on the asphalt, burnt, almost dark in the blood of the white and black spots.
Because it was not a dream but reality.