Of that range of forgotten records, which until its owners had lost the memory, and there by the obdurate agglomerates of the illustrious Papiniano villaverdino procrastination; from that heap of papers yellowed and dusty rose a crucifix, Christ in height, made in Guatemala, in the words of Don Juan. The divine image, fixed on the tree with four silver brads, I seemed, in that place, timely sign of resignation. Factions contorted, pale face, bruised temples, sharp nose, dull eyes, her lips parted in agony, I thought it went to the tomes thrown into oblivion, painful look strange compassionate mercy.

The only modern furniture that was there was a mahogany armchair, a gift from a grateful client. It sprawling legal expert with the gravity of a bishop in pontifical mass.

Near the window, on a pale carpet, two “butaques” medellineros, resobado and shiny leather, and a large armchair, incomparable to take a nap. The curtains of the window, once white, were now wet ash color, and its folds were visible from the ravages of the moth.

Border to the window on a table between two porcelain vases, crystal clock, a lyre, with the sphere of copper enamelled gold and blue figures under broken beacon whose parts were sold with wool of paper. The way that clock recalled the poetic hobbies legal expert. Standing, always silent, always pointing the same time, it seemed like eternity scary.

From a shelf and the wall was another clock weights in long, narrow box of ebony, always walking, always fixed. Before a low growl of his bowels of copper, let out a peal of bells pitched one hundred and dissonant, then his voice was grave and solemn time: thon! Thon! Thon! …