33 Revolutions

The whole country is a scratched record (everything repeats itself: every day is a repetition of the day before, every week, month, year; and from repetition to repetition, the sound deteriorates until all that is left is a vague, unrecognizable recollection of the original recording—the music disappears, to be replaced by an incomprehensible, gravelly murmur). A transformer explodes in the distance and the city is plunged into darkness. The building is a black hole in the middle of this universe that insists on loudly breaking down. Nothing works, but it's all the same. It's always the same. Like a scratched record, always repeating itself... ...Still dancing, he reaches the seawall, buys a bottle of diluted rum, sits down facing the waves, and compares their movement with the movement on the wall, which is full of couples feeling each other up, groups causing a ruckus, and loners like me, he thinks: Watching time pass is the people's favorite pastime.