There is a tract of land, of several miles long, running adjacent to a nearby highway, out of which stretches ugly, deformed, and white withered tree stubs against the passing cars. It was not always of such a horrid semblance; the storm made it that way. Miles and miles and miles of pale, morbid ugliness. It stretches on and on, while nobody even desires to glance at it. They are withered I say, and eroded by the inclement elements of wind, rain, thunder, and time.
It was the 23rd of August, in 1992. All the windows in the city had been shuttered; doors bolted; refrigerators stuffed; candles prepared; innumerable matches and lighters in multiple drawers; batteries packed inside the shafts of yellow flashlights; cans crossed with can openers; portable radios set up in living rooms; sons and daughters and mothers and fathers sitting rigid like mummified corpses, in front of their TV screens; the eye drew closer and closer and closer; the houses resembled the dull barracks of an immense encampment.
It was the 23rd of August, in 1992. All the windows in the city had been shuttered; doors bolted; refrigerators stuffed; candles prepared; innumerable matches and lighters in multiple drawers; batteries packed inside the shafts of yellow flashlights; cans crossed with can openers; portable radios set up in living rooms; sons and daughters and mothers and fathers sitting rigid like mummified corpses, in front of their TV screens; the eye drew closer and closer and closer; the houses resembled the dull barracks of an immense encampment.
Es como llegar de prisa. Entrar completamente a ciegas, abrirse paso en la oscuridad hasta encontrar una luneta vacía. Sentarse y ya no pertenecer a nada más que a la pantalla y a una música que lo domina todo. Eso es. Un agujero en la eternidad.
ResponderEliminarRemarkable opening! Finding rhymes in the emptiness, Mccarthy’s ‘The Road’ style. Can’t wait to read it all. Keep it up!
ResponderEliminar