(radio cassette version) - Moon Over Soho
engine suffers every steep hill, the wheels groan in every curve and body sings on every bump. The bus is full of people, suitcases on their heads, threatening to fall over them every second. In one of the front seats a baby crying in the arms of his mother, who quickly covers his mouth and looks briefly if her husband is still asleep. An old talks in her sleep, probably remembering some piece of life, the difficulties of always looking back to the future. The driver is ten hours behind the wheel, and hope to find a restaurant soon to fill the stomach.
In the seat 26 [window], a girl looks out the [window]. The look in his eyes, once determined and courageous, is off. He smiles from time to time, without really knowing why. Some thoughts cross his mind. Sandra
imagine the clanking of the wheels of a train on the rails of a non-existent railroad. Imagine also a song that was according to the sound, say, I've seen it all, Selma Ježková with Thom Yorke singing, ah, You Have not Seen elephants, kings, or Peru, I'm happy to say I HAD Better to do . Supports your head in the dirty glass Family Travel Company SA and turns sharply to reality. Fails to give the child romantic touch to your current situation: no money, no clean clothes, without the certainty of a place to go. It is like a stupid comedy, he believes.
has taken a bus from a company that agreed to take it for forty suns Arequipa. For the service rendered, should not pay even twenty, but no better options. Probably take more than 24 hours, not to mention people gathered on the road and roadside dinner [Dinner will not pay], but nevertheless feels terribly lucky to have found an empty seat. Force your mind to make sense of what you are doing at this very moment, his mind may not be supported. Andrew, oh, Andrew, was kind enough to pay a passage from Trujillo to Lima, and even wanted to give some money, money she flatly rejected. Once in Lima, had to find a way to take a car to drive you Arequipa. He has not called anyone. Neither his mother nor his friends. Nobody has any idea where he is, and shame and fear mingle in it. Back in Arequipa, you will feel better. Expects to feel better.
Awake at some point during the night [has promised to keep the phone off for a few days, so there is no way to know the time] and the memory is sufficient. The memory is said.
The memory on the beach or the movies, or square, or in many places in Trujillo. Look out the window and can see some stars scattered about that lonely sky [may be the clouds], the waves breaking over the rocks, so many feet under the bus. Find a family constellation, and after a few minutes, you agree that you can not find it. Start talking in a whisper, afraid to wake the lady lying on her side.
- Unable to recognize the Spica. Surely it was a thing of the moment, lighting, cheap flowers is said in the night by the pier, and that sort of thing, Andrew noted and perhaps ...
The Apparent brightness is deceptive, pero, as Spica Actually Consists of two stars very close together (a mere 0.12 Astronomical Units apart) That Each orbit Other Slightly in elliptical paths with a Period of only 4.0145 days, Which Makes Them Difficult to study Individually. Both Are blue class B (B1 and B4) hydrogen-fusing dwarfs (the brighter Nearing the end of STI stable lifetime), making Spica one of the hottest stars of the first magnitude ...
- ... Spica perhaps were not even real stars, no matter what anyone else can say. Or as real as the face and tell him "Andrew, you know what, I return to my hometown, it ends there, and do not call me." Stupid me. But being somewhat honest with him, well, just that it was the truth: Metidaza Pata, Sand-rex. Hehe, back to business as usual. Pathetically justify air, as if there was any reason, as if he really hurt me to say yes, some chapters or a few lines in my life. " Five or six months. My ankles hurt. The ... subordination? You say it? Subordination of the physical to the spiritual: Nobody has a nice story to tell when they had lunch, I can not apologize in the air if my feet hurt. Hey, lady, do you think?
The old sleeps uneasily at his side, occasionally muttering "The turkey, the turkey."
- Yes, the turkey, probably the kettle. The kettle of Sandra, you mean you. The kettle that moves away from Huanchaco and the passing of a wonderful day that lasted a day or maybe less.
Drops a sigh and curl up a bit in his seat, wrapping up the shirt. The last trace of hair dye disappeared a few weeks ago, with the last haircut, but used a hat anyway; cap that is quite useful to offset the cold of South American shit at this time of night. Through the window you can see the power poles, which seem to pass one after another, showing him at regular intervals, his face expressionless in the window.
- Posts pass one after another. A metaphor of time, are the posts going, identical, comparable to the passage of days? To the chick in the bus, so, but forgets that she is the one going on, leaving behind the posts. Identical, but only because you miss [Because the pass]. It is the same day, only become identical when you let it pass. Probably if I stopped to see one, if I come down, see in detail how wonderful every day [post]. Ja. Think these eggs are good for Anthony, I guess. I get bored.
Anton. Whenever you start to think things that have to do with time or with the poles, eventually that name comes to mind. Anton Anton, Anton crazy time. When Sandra did not return after one week, called Anton. Knock, knock. She sent a brief text message. "I'm fine, happy and peaceful with my life. I will bring gifts when you visit." Anton did not reply.
- How many missed calls and no one warned you, Anton. Look for what you poured the money you gave me my bag, haha. I do not know why I stayed. Palta, fear, desire ... I do not know. Though I suppose ... nah, who knows. I should? Oh, Should I Stay or Should I Go, all over again, always. Should I stay or should go. So much for hasty Decisions , I think. And why the hell I think in English lately?
Check your book notes "With the novel I ever write", not surprising to find it empty. He was surprised, yes, finding a pen in his pocket. Score a couple of things, and close your eyes. Sandra
deep sleep the rest of the trip. A few hours later off the bus, an expressionless mask covering, protecting, and at last reached Arequipa. Check your pocket.
- A clip that bears do not know how long.
- A notebook is perhaps the same time, completely empty. Well, almost completely, now has a few lines above.
- Cell [off]
- Two suns and sixty cents, to pay a combined passenger and perhaps eat something.
stops in front of the bus terminal, and watch the cars pass, different courses, different possibilities. It is perhaps the end of the afternoon, but no way of knowing, because the city is under a thick blue mist vaguely. He sits on the sidewalk for a few hours outside their own thoughts or words of others, watching the night pass by.
begins to sing.
In one corner, the monotony of my insane laughter hides, lost in the breeze of an afternoon, go through my window, wheels on the ledge, I covered the vacuum of a street with no exits, because our biggest secret is as complex as fantasy, it ends so fast, inventing an absurd game from the back of your old wounds, captive for the time and the silence that hurts. Among the leaves of a musty old book sleep, dying the day you wake up and there is more apathy than steal a secret smile and flee to a bare tree reminds you, confronts you and says quietly: I know you. Our biggest secret is as complex as in a dream and escape as quickly inventing an absurd game without end.
ends. There are some coins thrown at his feet. The catch from the floor and delivers them to the first beggar you see on the street. The grateful woman, says "God bless you." "And you too," Sandra answers.
night Mata sitting on a bench, scribbling in his notebook song lyrics, poems several and finally, a name repeated over and over again. "My words bind you," he says, satisfied, when the pen stops writing. People on the street seems to know where it goes up and down in cars, in and out of restaurants, holding hands, going over and over again. You do not see the absurdity of human existence, but when you see repeated many times in different faces, they end up being one. Doing things without meaning or wanting. In such ideas makes the time pass.
Again the time, "he says. Know that maybe only one person who say all this. Who tell of the difficulties of uneasiness, of misunderstanding, of quiet resignation, to have so many years and know that it has done nothing with life ... and this does not matter. And maybe ...
Start walking along a path he knows well. Head down, intersects with a friend who fails to recognize it, or so it seems. Tired looking wooden door, while her book reviews, with a speech carefully prepared and studied all night.
Smile, repenting and returning on their steps. Leave the book and discourse among the leaves, not knowing whether she will or not. Has decided to ignore that and just ...
knocks on the door of the house Anton.
- Epa.
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