Where lie the Ignacio Ortega writer tea words pick up with the aftertaste of a night placid, of full moon on the beaches of the Cape, with a smile where might be the universe. Sales on the street, you greet people with gestures and things as such, good morning or later. Greetings and expressions that punctuate the morning. Are used to the tumult, to the honking, the dirt of the street that you draw each day, to buses, to clutter that feeds the city. Still, enjoying the spectacle of the clear sky, and traces the path that always leads to the same tempting trade, unconscious raisins without looking next to the seller of the once that page you lucky day, calms traffic, buildings of the historical center waiting for its restoration until the newsstand, that clothesline of disordered papers, this Delicatessen of daily news and paper textures. You start to read the frightening headlines that you speak of the crisis does not stop, the monthly bleeding of the city every day or the poor without remission are news journals you gut thoroughly so you formes an opinion with which load your freedom to think.
Their words are diamonds that already not die while living men, scattered with details and daily notes. Each page is a perfect future of invisible communication, but you unworthy before certain information. Notes that you would like to put a muzzle on the words. You can not understand that the words of the newspaper are like stones that lie on a river that you have to drink. Your democratic deficit does not reach that flow of clean words like washed into the stream of the River, which can be moved or hurt, but other than these other canned words that offer some politicians every day, words which their protagonists escaquean after the artifice of the ambiguity. Fresh words against canned words. Your eyes eyes approaching the waters of that river of words and still surprised in every headline, but words only have the Mission of hug you, offer you a spring of inner freedom that you can drink; touring information and you unworthy to the words of the messengers or the opinions of those who there written, that they only rest on the plain of the mirror in which you drink. You heard that no democracy without freedom of expression, but you have not understood anything.
You have not understood how that news is valid for the day of the date, although it may not be for the next day, or that a story without a few drops of intention is so tasteless as distilled water. Pale, belly up, you lie adrift in the River, a fish floats in the crystal clear waters of democracy. You have lost freedom.