Laurent returned home, after that common passage lived in the art gallery, thinking of how he could look things straight ahead, pale streets, but violet, maritime waves mixed with the sun through the crack of his now bypassed wall, made from stones, trying to recover from a fortuitous event, not previously assisted in those streets. A wind storm. Suddenly, everyone was involved in a sandstorm. All fled, seeking refuge in a depopulated area. Seaside. Tables, awnings and food flew in through the air. The dust did not show anything. Smoke of time.
Laurent, lost in an unrecognizable oard, paradise, unknowing companies; felt a cyclist lean over, come against him. Grabbing him by for the elbow, in an attempt to keep him on ground and not flying off into the air or falling to the floor.
Laurent, tried to grab him, to take him by the arm, in turn; but the cyclist had already made the turn around his arm; he had grabbed him by his right arm, and he had turned this ninety degrees. The pain and the choking moment in Laurent´s body was surprisingly astonished whereas vast of drinks, food and empty chairs that passed before his eyes, while him was trying to understand what was happening with him.
Air. Blows. An inclement wind.
Awnings continued to die, and people kept running away from the sea, away from the waves. Dust, more wind and dust; only that; but disastrous.
The bed was wet, the night cold.
Laurent leaned out of his hotel window. The arm, still hurting him. He had it bloated while the memories of the previous day in the gallery came back to his mind. He remembered the painting. The aroma to try to solve the previous conditioning action of domeone bad´s election. The dream come true of a strange combination of intelligence, sponsor and talents that forced him, pushed him to keep walking even under the lure of knowing, the lure, and the lure carrier.
Laurent, looked down; He dropped a tear. Quiet. the one that nobody knew where it came from, exactly, and running the curtain went to the phone, asked to get ice from the hotel´s kitchen for his swollen arm, took some painkillers, and sat, alone, with their books and their photos, trying to explain how a nine of cups or hearts founded a while before above some rocks, in the other side of the beach were able to tell him, just, what just happened, a moments later of that day, almost in front of his eyes, through the airspace of the closed window. It was his agent, his agent, who had come till his hotel to tell him, that just that afternoon, early, before he was awake from the requiere nap due to his pain, he had sold his first painting, tin Barcelona; just that painting, relatingto the nine cup card, adorned and mounted on a wheel.
The nine of drinks, the wind, the sand .... and the sea.
Someone or something had come to tell him something.