not all die forever. Some return a hundred, two hundred years later. The now out of his studio from beyond the grave, fresh and young faces in the center of Buenos Aires and bookstores. Ask their latest titles, repeated every seller the name of the author and to be identified, but no news, no one remembers, is a perfect Jan Jan.
he is about to commit suicide back home, a friend found him in the bar La Paz.
- Flaco dear, you came back!
They embrace, but as are dead, there where slapping backs.
"Nobody reminds me," he admits, after inviting the friend to a cafe.
"Nor me," says the other, small consolation.
- But if you were not a writer!
"You see, the friend, in line with Discepolín," it does not matter, you always told me you did not event: let the pen, olivetti, the notebook. That write the giles, life is for living.
They look at anything else. After all have been known for two hundred years.
- Dale?
-Dale.
Noise overturned chairs, a table run by the push of flight, the boy runs after them and out of sight.
"Again, the two defectors, the younger, the channels that went to their cries:" They come every century, ask for a coffee and crack without paying.
0 comments:
Post a Comment