In memory of Bohumil Hrabal
Now that plowing under the wind in a burst of sunset, watch the bottle caps with the emblem of Pilsner beer embedded in the pavement and I recall the evening in the Tigre de Oro, or almost every night for more years than I can count, and the more I fall, I imagine more eyes, like stars or bottle caps too, Maruja , who kissed me in the dark corridor of the train, and whose soft, moist body hit but did not recognize me or his voice or anything, I even remember thinking that she was confused, and I thought it was a resounding lack of courtesy disappoint saying that perhaps it was not my lips that looked really, though my lips were to be delivered with all the candor of his maturity, but when the electricity came back and looked at her and she looked at me there was surprise in his eyes, rather win and impertinence of which I gathered that, like pigeons, had been stalking me, and when we left the train I went with her and I thought people should not live ever a floor number five, because she lived in that apartment, just like me and the hospital room, where the feathered creatures alight all day and steal the little quiet makes them less to other nursing and now open the hand and the crumbs escape me and unlike me, are going up, and I can still see the bottle caps and eyes and I remember that was not why I looked out the window.
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