In Cuba, poverty has the colors pastels of an impressionist pastel. Elsewhere, it would be ugly or unbearable, but not there: suspended time gives to the walls this leprous, timeless and declining aspect which makes the happiness of the curious tourists. Everywhere there is this so aesthetic patina when it fixes the colors diluted on paper, this splendid misery of the Cubans so beautiful to see, and so absurdity and unbearable with living with the daily

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