No finish line

It is a muggy summer afternoon.

     I am sitting in a café in the Red Square of Moscow and, sipping some delicious Turkish tea, I observe.

     I read frenzy and anguish on people’s faces, I notice the mechanicalness of their actions, their spasmodic run towards something of unknown. Everyone is in a hurry. They rush, they jostle each other, they give a hate-filled look to the first who tries to slow down near the underground entrance.

     They run towards money, trying not to lose time and opportunities. They run to overtake the others, as if at every inch they gained, they would receive richness, and the others would get misfortune. They run, careless of the rest. Closing off in their business, they step on a poor homeless’ foot, they avoid the questions of a disoriented tourist.

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