La Ley del Pobre

There are smells that cling to memory forever. Sweet, warm, slightly dirty - like spilt wine on the skin that can't be washed away by time or other bodies. Everything here is permeated with this obsessive longing: the breath, the touch, even the walls remember who whispered "I love you" within them. Love here isn't about tenderness - it's about dependence, about a habit of pain that, strangely enough, keeps you alive. It seems the hero has long understood he is doomed - and yet he reaches for the fire again, knowing how it will end. Because without this heat, it's emptiness, but with it, at least there's something to feel. It's a kind of hell for two, where punishment is accepted voluntarily, with a kiss and a slight smile.