More arms began to cram their way out through the toga’s armholes, and from beneath its short hem, as well, only they were not arms, not arms at all, and he screamed, he screamed, he screamed; it was oblivion he was screaming for, oblivion and an end to knowing and seeing, but oblivion would not come.
Millions long for immortality who don’t know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
And I know how it feels and looks, a body that falls fighting air all the way down, grabbing on to clumps of nothing and begging once, just once, just goddamn once, Jesus, you sniveling son of a mongrel bitch, just once that the air gives a grip.
Era la exhumación final de todo lo soñado y lo vivido, el comienzo de un viaje sin retorno hacia el pasado que ya sólo acabará conmigo.
In Santiago, the capital of the kingdom of Chile, at the very moment of the great earthquake of 1647, in which many thousands of people perished, a young Spaniard accused of a crime, Jerónimo Rugera by name, was standing by pillar of the prison in which he had been confined and was about to hang himself.