(The images of past time vanish in the air behind the ghostly round of people captured in the family album, in that same garden where you are resting now, in the shade of the same eucalyptus trees: the crisscross and agile ballet of forgotten steps and dead voices. The tranquil and bloodless hecatomb of intense and now exhausted moments; the slippery passage of days that erodes and corrupts everything. You and she alone, in precarious balance, safe from and at the mercy of the inevitable shipwreck.)
Monday, February 4, 2008
Marks Of Identity - pg. 283
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