the first wild blackberries

42. clear water along the way

What’s yet to come. The wind in the trees.
Everything is the projection of a forlorn kid.
He’s walking alone along a back road. His
mouth moves. I saw a group of people
opening their mouths, unable to speak. The
rain filters through the pine needles.
Someone is running in the woods. You can’t
see his face. Just his back. Pure violence. (In
this scene the author appears with his hands
on his hips watching something offscreen.)
The wind and the rain through the trees, like
a curtain of madmen. The wind blows like a
ghost on a deserted beach: lifts his pajamas,
pushes him across the sand until he
disappears in the middle of an asthma attack
or a long yawn. “Like a rocket sliced open”…
“The poetic way of saying that you no longer
love back streets lit up by patrol cars” …
“The melodic voice of the sergeant speaking
with a Galician accent” … “Boys your age
who’d settle for so little” … “It’s too bad” …
“There’s a kind of dance that turns into
lips”… Wells of clear water along the way.
You saw a man on the ground under the
trees and you kept running. The first wild
blackberries of the season. Like the screwedup
eyes of the excitement that rushed to
meet you.

from Antwerp by Roberto Bolano

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