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
Monday 17 October 2011
ACEITE DE OLIVA
En el plato quedan restos de ojo cansado, de mirada paulatina, y mientras tanto el fuego lo quema todo a excepción de un insulto refugiado en las paredes de un paréntesis. Anthony Match sigue sin escribir, Gloria bebe irritada. Llueven tropezones de desgana sobre una lata de atún abierta desde hace días y la sequedad es permanente
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