Tell me Where does silence hide? Tell me: show me the emptiness of Luis Putton? Tell me: explain to me the concept of hollow time? Tell me: how do we magically reconfigure the past? Tell me: why does the skin tear like a mask? Tell me: what language does an unnoticed one speak? Francisco de Goya, you dissolve ashes and greasy ink to tell me the plague left its trail in history. Mountains of incinerated beings mounted with their abandoned misery. Carrying their old age with two crutches, supporting the rhythm of their breath. Contempt transforms into delicacy, the unheard from history. Francisco, we don't evolve this fast as you may think. Tell me in which drawer you keep your secret and I will show it to you. Secrets beaten as a pomegranate from a tree which is all too familiar