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...I think it was February, maybe March, we moved from our old and ample flat in Lanus, to a house in Remedios de Escalada, some near but distant zones in the suburbs of Buenos Aires, where everything is distant, even one's own shadow. I think it was 2001.
I couldn't walk during the move, I had a fracture in the ischium, and had to spend 30 years in bed, they helped me to sit down...it was a car; the whole travel toward our new home in the night was as short as interminable, the removal van was ahead, we were like a caravan of Gypsies going nowhere, the stars above were dumb, deaf, retarded, too distant to understand or to see.
The flat where we have been living, it was located in one of the most remote and wild zones of Lanus, almost at the edge of the district, the flat was part of a tower blocks complex, familiarly known as monoblocks over there: the complex was like a polygon, surrounded by the absolute nothing, and united to the inhabitated areas of the district by means of a road.
It was like an extraterrestrial, isolated tower blocks dome: my years in the tower blocks were strange, I felt in an island of concrete, incommunicado from the world, which was distant and was alien...in the nights, the Moon bathed in white horror the carpet of a room which was my cabinet: I was out of this world.
2.
The whole travel toward our new home was as nocturnal as infernal, the removal van was ahead, we were like a caravan of Gypsies going into the midnight fury.
Something was broken, and I didn't care about the place where I'd live anymore: all the places were good, nowhere was good; all the places were my place; nowhere, never, nevermore.
The stars above were dumb, deaf, retarded; the night was airy and high as the lunar noises printed their rotogravures on the dried mud; sad, like the poetry or the false perceptions.
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