Lapa.

A bus driving precariously in busy and empty highways, a tiger stencil on the wall, "animals are friends, not food", a skeleton sleeping on the pavement, a car park blasting out Forro, the restaurant across the street Samba, two broken guitars crying about redemption and lies, chattering and laughs, a cat on its sixth life crossing the street among screeching taxis, portable toilets full to the brim, alcohol and meat, on the wall a pregnant woman with a mustache cradling a flag begging to give birth, the revolving red light of a patrol car, someone's child sleeping among empty cups, the smell of urine, two supermarket plastic bags tied around a young palm tree, ancient records on sale, hope and dreams and illusions, travelling ceramic tiles on display, stuck to the stairs with superglue, a Voodoo doll in black and red and white lying among flowers, cans and ice and straws and meat on the streets, a green cloth covering a broken horse-cart, a crippled pigeon stumbling on the cobble-street, loud red lights and wet kisses, a long walk among sleeping tombstones, eyes staring at youth in amazement and disbelief, brave hands and hopeful lips, dancing hips, the doll thrown on the tarmac crying for a home, short skirts and confident unbuttoned shirts, cars and people bumping into each other, speakers talking in tongues, long drinks with gallons of spirits trespassing fences, three men dreaming of beds, litter and vomit and hopes, a dirty wall as a testament, the smell of fire, eternal fire, no more cigarettes, a sickly rain that changed its mind and a sleepy moon, honest lies and fake dreams, memories, ghosts crisscrossing the aqueduct, the red light molesting young cheeks, a laugh and a blush, a kiss and a promise, here's India and there's Boca, a man's vision and the people's nod, plastic chairs in front of graffitis, a foul smell and a perfume, a lying newspaper for a pillow, a great night, the last night, the Voodoo doll found a family.
Sleep.