The wind whistles through abandoned rooms,tearing the silence. While mice race through rotten pipes where once water ran and little Roma children washed their hands. The iridescent reflection of light on the shatters of broken glass, displays a lustrous, rainbow like effect. Above the broken shards, outdated newspapers swathe parts of the window . Light dances through holes forming shadows of muscular figures. A thin layer of cement holds the weight of the marching workers. With their calloused hands, they strip down the walls, removing its last memories. They take out long paintbrushes, dip them in buckets of vivid colors and monotonosly strike the walls in even paces. All of them, repeating the same movement as if they were robots programmed to erase every last reminiscence of the past. The toluene chemicals invade the old building, annihilating the smell of petrichor and tarnish. A tormented basketball dances at the light breezes, waiting for his Roma friend.

Chartreuse green vines crawl greedily on the sorrounding walls of the deserted building. As on the other side of the walls, ecru white tends made out of old sheets hang loosely on skinny wooden sticks. The tends are chaotically placed next to each-other, like someone had just thrown cotton balls in a pile of dirt. Inside the tends beds constructed out of many layers of covers, are neatly made and decorated with ripped teddy bears and various pieces of toys. Decrepit washing machines and other appliances stand outside as if waiting for someone to pick them up. In the mean time, women rub antediluvian fabrics of clothes with soap and fresh Lana water. Some of them run to the other side of the street, crossing the rows of furious cars. They carry buckets of water behind their backs, securing it with their manly hands, making the buckets look like camel humps. Thin wires are tied to branches of trees, weighing them down to the side, on which wet materials of clothes add color to the jejune city. Clouds of gas, stain the wet clothes of just pumped fuel. Citizens walk down the streets giving dirty looks of revulsion. The women do not notice, but run to them in look for money which for them symbolizes hope.

Roma children travel the maze of expensive cars, in anticipation for some spare dimes. Lines of worries hung on their crestfallen faces. Their lips dried and colorless, revealing unwashed teeth. A jumble of black knots run up to their dark skinned shoulders. Under all of that maturity and depression, innocence flickers in their eyes. The boys stood in small gangs asking for money, while the girls held sleeping babies. Each one reached out their frail hands up to the heavily secured windows of the upper class. As if in perfect harmony, all the drivers secured the windows, as soon as one of the Romas approached. The ones who did not make it in time to close the windows, shooed the Roma children away as if they were stray dogs begging for food. One of the fortunate Roma girls found a munificent driver who took out his Louis Vuiton wallet to offer a small amount of his monthly income to the little girl. The blood rushed to her face, her feet tingled and her eyes scintillated with pride. Pride, to have secured her family a meal. At that moment the stoplight turned green. The horde of sport cars sped toward its destination, like angered bulls. The white hood of one of the cars shot towards the glorious Roma girl, her blood coloring the hood red. Her lifeless cadaver lay on the filthy road, the ten cents still tight in her blood-spattered hand.