There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.
Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.
I was lucky enough to see with my own eyes the recent stock-market crash, where they lost several million dollars, a rabble of dead money that went sliding off into the sea.
With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.
The only things that the United States has given to the world are skyscrapers, jazz, and cocktails. That is all. And in Cuba, in our America, they make much better cocktails.
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
