At sunset Funklandia speaks to you. On a day like this, with clear skies and a sun so close, she decides to talk to you. It does so through the towers of churches, whose white stones are the last to be lit. It does so through the light mist that kisses the lake and river before night. Through a girl, no jacket, makes wheels and somersaults on the asphalt cold. She tells you adventurous lives and stories through their faces troubled strangers who meet on the street. He likes to prick the tip of the nose with a blast of icy wind. We play the music, the real one, with the cellist walking the ramp before the train. She will speak with the movement are assured that the tram and take you home.
And when you do not feel it is because, at that time, she has to listen.
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