While they wait, some of the women write the history of a circle with their cigarette smoke. The one looks through the wind as if she saw a turbid river destroying the city in its wake.
I crossed the bridge to get here. I see the light from that window at exactly the same moment when the twilight turns to night.
The dampness I feel in the fingers of my right hand is odd. It started off as something warm, but quickly starts turning into a scalding bite, like that of the coral-snake. My other hand falls asleep and its temperature drops, like the image of a wire that twists and gets lost in an Antarctic gust. First ice, then nothing. The fire, the void.