Twenty
Vas barefoot, and feet quiet. Going barefoot and go with me, or go with you, or we just go. You can not assimilate, I can not feel your pain, but I, I swear I want. But your tears are not mine, I just I feel it coming, or I, or we, mixed or isolated, but visible, complete, and aware of one another, at least I am the one and I the other, although I prefer to imagine that, too, like me, conscious of the way , your condition Luna.
Luck finally made me a wink, life, finally gave me the signs, you're here, next to or ahead, sometimes behind, but you're here, more than a Unit lackluster in the vast blue. I rejoice your tears unseen, I can not help it, because I know you've slipped, your shaft is no longer the same, and your face repeated the other is infected, the occult, the inextricable to everyone but me, I am the beholder of the world beyond Earth, in this way the wood is damp and salt fog and pain for premature death. I would also accompany the pain, but I can not, I can not, I can not even want.
Today I know that death is a fact that sooner or later, that this or that, for me or anyone. Today I know that death is and so does not affect me. Gone is the future, death is why the disappearance of the future, and who is your father has died, Esperanza; your home, your cause, your right, and yet you're here me.
And so I'm happy.
selfish and happy.
***
Nobody wants it, but everyone is invited to look around when it comes to the next; Death leaves a trail, signs that the living recognize and pursue, follow them because they know That already won what I wanted, believing themselves to be saved, knowing that maybe they have turn to the next minute will therefore, to avoid thinking about the way that a persons called both . Walrus is dead Lucio -think and the world goes on, yesterday suffered and was happy, cried and celebrated, and sleep thinking about the future, tomorrow, perhaps with fear, or desire to begin a good fuck , start, and now no more than an empty shell, today is the bunch of meat in hours start to stink, and will swell and will withstand the rigor that was sagging when breathed and smiled.
not know them, do not know their names, are a lot of people traveling in the third of Mary Fioravanti and only now repairs on their faces, in their colors, aromas, and recently there were now he sees, and knows senses alive and behind them the same shadow that projects no longer Don Guido. The same shade is charging Lucio, but this morning was not particularly inclined to allow an existence he sees in others and that is all, and that's okay, so he's fine. Someone comes over and asks him, he responds with vague data: name, the province of origin, nothing more, and even if he wanted to be more friendly to the requirements, do not really know anything more about him, except that it is the father of a girl named Esperanza and yesterday he had escaped from a wheel, but rather silence that fact, believing that it is not important, or perhaps because it loads like a stone embedded in the shoe, slightly uncomfortable, a suspect would be better to banish, Lucio, why, why ... What is irrelevant in any case, and therefore also silent, is responding to the others.
Ajenos -think ... for some reason, Lucio feel the pain. Even when some clueless gave believing condolences to the family, accepted it without comment ...
...
... Lucio felt hand and could not understand why. Don Guido meant nothing to him, nothing since the impulse I had felt for Hope, the game, now it was gone, now it was still morning and noticed a subtle change in the routine of his life. From the hall you could hear the cries of women, the circle of onlookers raised their demonstration of compassion every time a voice broke into the cabin, thirty-five. He thought it might be desirable in and cooperate with Giovanni and Liberato, but the sun was too intense and too the vital impulse that, without him noticing, and remained elevated him and took him to the American mind, and the future. So, a background image, almost blurred, shy, but that image, that momentum, were the stars of tomorrow, like every morning, and prevented him from plunging into the pain and the face of death.
Poor Don Guido, felt almost obliged to pity, but just wanted to smoke, and only hoped that Francis promised to return to snuff, then a cigarette, fat, good fat, turn it on, and let the smoke invading the veins, the blood arise charge of tingling and slight dizziness in the first breath, let the smoke stung in the throat, which invade the lungs and then expelled slowly through your mouth first, then nose, and if there was a rest, returning to the lungs, obedient to the rhythm of breath, and expel it with force upward guided by the lips ...
... With the second breath, taking advantage of the weak sea breeze that came -very calm, very calm, rain-soon would form halos perfect legs bl; the drive out with a short breath, or perhaps prove the technique taught to him by Pietro, in the village knew Pietro expel smoke rings with just unlock the cheeks, was his favorite grace, sitting on a rock at the edge of the slope where he opened the way to die in the village, the repeated again and again; Lucio may prove, perhaps, knowing useless, because never before achieved and indeed content with the slightest encouragement, and even was always best to avoid halos, because the rings were an achievement Lucio half and also the duty of memory, Lucio feel the triumph only if he could lock and unlock the cheeks, and accompany the white wheel, almost substantial, with the crash of bones, like Peter, back in the village on the slope, in the limit in the way that Lucio himself dared to walk, because if something wanted Lucio was smoking and smoke halos with better snuff.
First was to leave the town without looking back, but sensing that his friend had spent the last farewell hug and halos like, then it was the port and Alma, and she with them, smoking in the room, trying in vain to the loops that only were possible with the aid of a slight breath, swallowing smoke to fool the mind, ideas, to claim his blood drunk by snuff, sitting on the edge of a window that showed the docks and boats and the clatter of people walking away as he tried to lock the cheeks, over and over again, promising better luck with the next cigarette, and was immediately next to deceive the time, this time to time, and reality, to the claims of Alma and the cries of the child, and on the streets of packages stacked on the edge of the plates, and white handkerchiefs, and the sirens and steam, fog, wet pavement and covered the steps of arriving and departing voices and tears in silence, broken sighs, undecided between the hopeful pain and joy, and he was Pietro, Pietro trying to be on the edge of the road, anchored, tied to the neck by the invisible chain that only preconceived limits allowed, but at least let him the time and courage to demonstrate their skill with the smoke and cheeks, and he was Pietro, aware that his network had been more extensive, but string to the end, leaving in the fourth and Alma, in love and the girl, but very far from each other, Lucio, who was not able to form rings or patient enough to endure, still, the image of a road waiting for him, hence the boat, not looking back, with a good supply of snuff in his pockets to sit and smoke, sit and wait, sit and watch the sea and try to avoid rings with the technique of Pietro; such some time ago, where possible support the distance, the absence of Peter and the people of Alma and girls, because in the afternoon .... Evening ... and at night ...
The night was forget that there was a shadow in which everything is nothing, either, as Don Guido, could die, or even decide his death. The night was losing the arguments of the morning was to look back and see Pietro and the people, but especially to Alma, and most of all to the girl. The night your child, and love, and pain, pain of love. The night was looking desperate cries drown, stir the conscience to that of the morning we serve, by God, it would be useful. Lucio ready to jump the boundaries, to lose, to recognize their guilt, they said, he shouted: "Better still with you, do you care if you're alive, do you care for them if As you all will be dead or alive. What you care about life and guilt, guilty life, as long as you snuff to smoking. "
then palpated his bag at the edge of dawn, and pledged that America would buy the best.
Twenty-eight
had been a premonition, the pain was present in the night had been nothing more than an echo of the now the silent anguish of the incredible reality I said loudly that his father had died. I could not believe, felt the pain, but pain that stemmed from the combination of the words death and father of the ideas represented separately, interspersed substance concepts, but not the pain that I had imagined (if it ever had been allowed to think) for the time after the death of his father, this was unrealistic, insensitive, as if the absence is not more than passing, and that at night he would return and kiss her, and would leave the room after dinner.
had read in novels, scenes ripped tears of pity, desire flowing into the pages and embrace the orphan child, because somehow, as she read, she was the child as the father was, in life and in agony, Esperanza, in the books, it was everything and was all and felt like they, was the words that explained the pain, the pain felt dumb, suggested, but he was also one that was the sum of all the pains, that history and the above, adding their own, never as deep as those who lived in the books, the old pains reborn with death and pity and the desire to be there to embrace the hero, to embrace herself, although she seemed pains as futile.
This pain was different from that which was cured with tears and forget, with a new book, with laughter, or adventures. This pain was not caused unfading and tears. The idea was father to one side, the killing of the other idea, and under his bare feet burning the opening that opened to swallow not to show deep and dangerous, and ultimately comforting, but leaving it there on the edge, open your feet . That pain could not cry, could not be drained. And it was impossible, a pain impossible for an impossible reality. Death and father. Father and death, the concepts near caused him distress. Death and father, father and death, but refused to bind and forming dead father, dead father, his father is dead, dead dad. Impossible, impossible, impossible, so I could not mourn, so was the pain, sadistic imagination, for their unwanted thoughts, fear. It was a lie, it was a truth lies, what would you tell the captain? What had killed his father? Hope
not know how to lie.
Hit Antonio. There was no response. Expected. How much should be expected to return to knock on the door of a captain? What would you say?
If it was Anthony who speak, say he has killed a man, Guido G., thirty-five passenger cabin of Mary Fioravanti, and those words would be true. But if hope should say that he was his father died, and would not be true, were the words, concepts, and language to form sentences, but lacked the substance and facts, because nothing that Esperanza say may sound true. Hope not know how to lie, had wanted to close the book, that everything had been a history of others, their own but others, and embrace and mourn, along with her, mourn.
I cheated, I know I cheated, because I think me and you're not, because I give the forms of my moon. I know I cheated and yet I persist, I return to the path and look up and see you but not you. Yes, yes you, you should be, Esperanza. Now I could mourn and you would see my tears and I should not, I should not, because yours are invisible and the time corresponding to your pain, not mine, not I, not I, not I think, Hope, I should not challenge or question you, not is a lie, you are, you hope, my moon, which never comes, and he always is. Which I viewed from the edges, from a distance that extends as attempt the advance and I wait, wait, wait for me because that way you know, I'm going to you, aware of the deception ... no, no, no, no cheating on me, I do not. You, Hope, my Moon, my new moon, the moon that shines at night in America, and that sometimes comes during the day, as a unit, Luna comes to say goodbye to the sun. Luna Luna arrives and is invented because he knows that in heaven there is no name or conscience, or freedom. Luna always broken and always will rotate, slave of time and forms, anonymous, with your face, knowing that you moon but not your name is Luna, my Hope. I come to you, my road leads to heaven, I know, but many times I've climbed and I climbed, I climbed to the top and I've realized that I was still on the ground that it is always possible to go higher. I thought at the highest peaks is only possible look up and check distance, or look forward and discover a higher cost, or look down to find the path that leads me towards it I cheated, I know I cheating when I search the top and not you, it's you who should seek for the paths are not ends but means to reach, the summit should not be my goal, you must be, and when I finally can say, when he finally accepts it, then I can fly. But I cheated, I still cheating, and I give the forms of my moon of the moon I see from the top without realizing that your forms are not given more than for you, not me who is, I just discover you. Hope, Hope, when they finally accept my mistake, then I will raise and fly and you catch up on the top, and you'll be mine, moon nights of my America, you will be mine also in the days, blue skies days those in which the Moon comes to say goodbye to the sun. No lie, I am not mistaken, you're my moon but you are not mine. You're mine, Esperanza. No, I am not mistaken, I know I do, so I return to the road and slopes; your name drives me, and soon you'll be mine.
Chapters Twenty-nine and Thirty
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