Sometimes it leads us away in search of what we don't have. Autochthonous is not enough, and we have to go to strangers to match our vital needs. There are many that walk like us, so we see uniform marks in these corners. They have installed immense public buildings so that we can teach our talents, charging us fees tailored to these miserable. Fairs. Cafes 2 euros, snacks 8. This time we are in Barcelona de Catalunya. Here there are more leftover camps than the odd ones, empty in three quarters, unable to hide with fabric to be cared for like us. Doctors need our clients, coming to these places in the hope of finding them. This one named Internacional has little national. The loose specimens that come to us – the customers who visit us greet us in Catalan – are a language that they like to speak, as if in themselves they made it more adjusted, including those in Lyon. They're not used to, because they're not used to speaking to us in French. They have realised that the two who spoke English were French. Domage. We are experiencing a crisis of talent, of vanity.