A train. An airport (Charleroi). A station (Brussels). A woman (in Barcelona). A man (Bologna, but also in Seville, Sarajevo). Words. Attention. Silence.
The train stops at the Gare du midi. There are many things to say. Not fit into the mouth of Alberto. Not fit. Silence. Silence. The January 8. Where? In Barcelona. Ya. In Barcelona. Near the Cathedral. Ya. But now the silence. The silence of the eye.
are all sitting on the bench marble atrium of the station Z. A woman with a veil, a floral pattern around the head. A middle-aged man in a suit and tie. A girl with a yellow backpack. They are all sitting on the bench marble atrium of the station Z. You do not know. Perhaps they never will. To remain silent gasp oxygen in swallowing pills blue. The man sitting between two women loosen the noose around his neck. A drop of sweat on the collar crashes crumbling between the fingers. Nervous puffs. You a locomotive. He glanced toward the front wall. There are seven twenty-three. It will be the right time? And who knows? The woman plays knotted fingers, as if expecting a reward for their skill, as if imagined audience, and blurry, she strips on stage of blackened wood, the applause in the hall, the lights. The girl, however, opened the diary and reads the thoughts of a few days before, but do not recognize. Maybe she did not write them, maybe they are placed there as does the pollen in the spring, carried by the inertia of life. Maybe. And who knows?
's been three hours and twenty minutes. Nobody has turned up on site it occupied. No one uttered a word. Only the hands of time have experienced the change. In the distance the clatter of the rails, the pounding of metal discs that produce avant-garde music. A far cry, move like the belly of the hungry, as the breasts of olive trees. They are all sitting on the bench marble atrium of the station Z. And it's a beautiful station. Marble. Or maybe not. It all depends on the confidence that feeds on those who tell the story. He was of marble? And who knows?
A door opens into the station Z. Coming out (or out-comes? O-enter inside?) A lady from the turquoise apron. His face blank, her eyes following straight lines such as rails, without depth of mud, with no scent of lilies, not thrills. The man turns to his left and sees it coming. Proceeds without hesitation. Accompany a cart full of rags and trash. The girl seems to be more distracted, but perhaps now it is only pretending to read the diary. His attention was thrown away like a car on fire. The fingers of the lady now panting chase, and already formed a thin layer of sweat on his back as lovers. Only the lady from the turquoise apron seems unmoved. Continues up to overcome our three friends on the bench. It is time for only a fraction of a second. Even at that time betrays a grimace or a grin. Continues. With the same pace ever. Continues. Up to rest the hand on the door opposite where you entered. Lower your hand. The door creaks. She disappears.
