A very pale woman sat smoking and working her lips like an octopus. She sucked at her cheeks. She looked over her shoulder. She kept brushing her hair out of her mouth. She tapped her feet. When she got up, I say that she limped gingerly, as if she had taken walking lessons from pet cats who had recently been declawed. She hobbled through the park, clopping along the left brick path, then left, left and left again. She came back to her bench and sat down. She kept over her shoulder. She had long skinny legs.
The sunlight was a brassy as the mating of golden flies.
I could distinguish the people who belonged from the people who didn’t, because both sorts left the park, but the people who belonged kept coming back and sunning themselves innocently, as if this were their first time here. Miss Octopus no such trouble. Day after day she fled her form whatever was behind her...//...
The sunlight was a brassy as the mating of golden flies.
I could distinguish the people who belonged from the people who didn’t, because both sorts left the park, but the people who belonged kept coming back and sunning themselves innocently, as if this were their first time here. Miss Octopus no such trouble. Day after day she fled her form whatever was behind her...//...
William T. Vollmann - Thirteen Stories and Thirteen Epitaphs-
Labels: Literatura
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