10 While the bricklayer's skin and brain roast in the midday sun, under which he is cementing the tree pit from which the town hall has snatched another tree, the rentier has an overpriced coffee on the terrace that occupies the sidewalk (impassable and with shadows from sponsored umbrellas). Suddenly, she grimaces and, without taking her eyes off her phone, hyperbolically laments the footballers who in a couple of hours, under the scorching star, will have to play a match. This individual of the human species lives an existence so parallel, so separate from ours, that she neither sees nor hears the protest procession (at 49 degrees without shade) of the peregarauinian associations. Nor does the expat from the other bar hear or see it, who, with his gaze fixed on his laptop, his ears plugged with headphones, and his neurons in the paid cloud, inhabits yet another universe.

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