I have always thought, contemplating certain corners of the great city in which I live, Madrid, that those same candel lights that many of its old streets wear, are the same ones that inspired that great heir to the classic tragicomedies, who was Charles Chaplin. There is something of bohemian relevance, in that close embrace, between light and darkness, not exempt, seen from an eminently reflective and poetic point of view, of a sentimental charm that even touches the arid borders of something in the background. So subjective, as is nostalgia.

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