the wind sound, cold lonely ghosts keening in the windowpane and rattling the kitchen fire escape door. backache. freezing rain. streets glaze. eyes nod like dried leftover flowers on the border great lawn. i have to ride with the autopilots. winter will kill, me my heart beats. the sirens, the clanging of trains, the keening ghost wind. 
                                                                              
                                                                           ***
few things, however, seemed less reliable to him than thoughts based on his city; at some point, something had been severed and not one of the situations, places, or impressions he recalled belonged in their own right to the landscape of reality; or perhaps it was the other way around, and the present moment was translated over and over again, updating itself by erasing its own shadow, its sense of history, and the traces left on people.
                                                                                                             sergio chejfec
                                                                                                             the incompletes