28 September 2016
All texts by Julio Cortazar.
There’d not been any words, not even a vision; something between the two, an image decomposed into many words like dry leaves on the ground.
He felt a sort-of hateful tenderness, something so contradictory that it must have been truth itself.
(The wind was blowing their words away and they were speaking in a low murmur)
But it’s not true, how can he hurt her by hanging on her words.