I read two or three days ago an article about the ranks of Guillem Martínez and I do not know if I understood it well. He said that under his house he has a ice cream store that had nothing to do with him and that, in recent times, he usually has people as soon as he opens, one after the other, waiting because one of those influencers has invented unique characteristics that they do not have. The reality is so intolerable that we think we prefer to order it pending a lie. “Millions of people are in millions of rows, so they look like pillars, waiting for the next lie to come. Order of advancement.” I'm afraid that guy's not queuing. And that the real metaphor of the article was not the same line, but the one that looks from the top down to the line, from home.

What you've invented that ice cream is fake. But the Prado is not a lie, not in that sense. There are the pictures. There's silence. There's greatness. There's the bagging of the walk. There are so many painted eyes that they look at you. The longest queues are made at the museum entrance hours for free.

The water park, in August, is not a lie, for the kids, it's a paradise not to think more about a plan all day long, for the neurons in the quiet pajamas. However, first the row in the car, the row at the entrance, probably the row at each attraction.

The butcher, the supermarket, the circus, the concert, the plane, even in the town square receiving the letters of the children Olentzero and Mari Domingi.

If you offered it to us, we would all erase the lines of our lives and be fascinated. If you offer it to us, we would erase from our lives the things that ask us to confuse ourselves with the people we choose. If the others aren't brighter, more marked, more famous than we are. But those aren't in line, they go by the tail to get into the plane, and then they're in the window of some hotel, or the window of your house, interpreting the tails.

There are queues that lead to more raw realities. In Easter I saw in Madrid, next to a church, a line that I have long been stuck in: the reality was a bag of charity, a snack, a yogurt, a fruit grain. He almost turned to the building. You see yellow backpacks splashing the tail, Glovo. They waited for lies. In the waiting rooms of Osakidetza, we also make messy queues, with a papelite that looks like butchery in the hand. Waiting for the lie of survival (or death well conditioned with opiates).

The lower middle class, the working class, even if it's a tourist, isn't that silly, that intellectual that you look at us out the window; if you cheer yourself into a line, you'd see more than from the window. These lines do not seek a lie, they represent the degree of civilization of those who do them (there is always some narcissistic who wants to hide, it is true), those who eat, beat, trample. They wait together. These queues are a collective hope. And in those queues we look a lot, we caress, we help ourselves a lot (how many times has the courtesy gesture of a stranger saved you? ).

Maybe I haven't been understood by the writer now. You? Mime the rows and the tails. Good August.