Cortázar is a great bus seat companion, that book over my lap, helping pretend that whatever is going on around me, isn’t.
There I am, huge moving vehicle, a bright blue neon light over my head, women-objectifying music blasting in the radio, loud, but not loud enough to block the sound of trembling glass of the cheap windows, shaky hand trying to highlight four lines with a #2h drawing pencil.
I find it very ironic, the attempt of highlighting with black chalk, irony of the same sort of throwinga birthday party inside a funeral home.
I bet the author would attend to the gathering.
The stranger sitting beside me shuffles in his seat, I can tell he is trying to make out what I’ve drawn in the upper right corner of the last chapter page.
“It’s a building with a couple of windows lit” I whisper to myself, a steady…
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