There were neither plots nor characters,
only places. Neighborhoods sliced
in half. Terraces and corridors
between roofless rooms. Profiles only.
Staggered
spaces. Far off a group
was sucked up
into its own restlessness: the after-dinner
conversation, the waiting, shuffle between
one door and another, shifts
in posture; remarks that from here,
where you hurried to leave,
were already beyond hearing.
Coral Bracho
Transl. by Forrest Gander
