Elias looked up, a manic grin plastered on his face. "I'm alive, Antonio!" he guessed at the name. "Are you?"
He wasn't shouting in anger. He was shouting because he was thirty-two and finally understood that the world doesn't listen unless you make a noise. He shouted for the promotion he didn't get, for the girl who moved to Madrid, and for the sheer, ridiculous beauty of being alive and caffeinated in the middle of a Tuesday night. Voy Gritando por la Calle
He went inside, leaving the echoes behind for the city to sweep up in the morning. If you'd like to continue the story, tell me: Should Elias on his walk? Elias looked up, a manic grin plastered on his face