I imagined people at breakfast, people who know each other intimately, probably a husband and a wife, speaking in unfinished sentences, in grunts, in coughs, as people do, particularly at that time of day. And I wondered what it would be like to sit down at that kind of dialogue, in which sentences are rarely completed and thoughts are rarely followed up and one person is not really listening closely to another. That’s all I had. And that’s when I began writing - Don Delillo
Wednesday 9 April 2008
SALCHICHAS DE POLLO - RESTOS
Yo encuentro, y a veces me lastimo, y desoyendo el refrán que se labra en mi envejecer, me desdoblo y las palabras sufren una especie de metástasis, cogen frío y se mudan de ropa. Se cambia de calor, se tuercen, y a veces es el eco de la gente el que me hace saltar de la silla de madera. Los pasos por la calle mojada, las pisadas de barro, los cartuchos calientes, el run run del pueblo, los ojos de la ciudad, el sabor a tabaco y mentira.
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