Chronicle of the City of Caracas

“I need someone to listen to me!” he shouted.

            “They always tell me to come back tomorrow!” he shouted.

            He threw down his shirt. Then his socks and shoes.

            Jose Manuel Pereira was standing on the cornice of the eighteenth floor of a building in Caracas.

            The police tried to grab him but failed.

            A psychologist talked to him from the nearest window.

            Then a priest brought him the word of God.

            “I’m sick of promises!” Jose Manuel shouted.

            He could be seen through the picture windows of the restaurant in the South Tower, standing on the cornice with his hands flat against the wall.  It was lunchtime and he was the topic of conversation at every table.

            Down at street level, a crowd had gathered.