Sopas del Mundo: the lumieresque concerts; the cosmopolitan romanticism.
It was a café, but it showed serious cabaret intentions. We won't disclose its location to prevent you from jumping into your time machines and packing the place; we were crammed tight enough at the moment, thank you very much.
Then three blokes appeared on stage and, oh boy, could you believe it! We got mass hysteria, underwear showers and people fainting within the first two minutes. From then on, we only have the disjointed reports of various governments' intelligence agencies and a few incoherent babblings from the residents of three mental asylums. It was a night of wonders and prophecies, of cosmic anomalies and alternate realities. One single vector of existence couldn't hold so much quality; thus, the universe had to change a few fundamental laws in order to adjust for such display.
You do remember, don't you? Although you weren't there to see it, you felt it as a brief wink in which the world turned off and reloaded. It was that very same night when everything seemed to be going your way. If you didn't ride the streak, you've got no-one to blame but yourself.
It was Sopas del Mundo's debut night.
Pablo was on stage contributing to the catharsis and Germán sat among the audience, holding his brain cells with toothpicks.