Qué extraños y deliciosos personajes pueblan Maine los días de lluvia. Algunos no tienen cara, others (the best) they don't have hands. They look out of the porch windows, They never leave their homes because their blood is so cold that their veins have become thin cables of hardened glass that do not allow joint movement.. Staying in Maine is everything. That is why the lives of its inhabitants are cyclical., That's why the best-known hotel in the city has circular hallways.. That's why it's impossible to run away.. And if a stranger comes there, after driving for hours through suffocating fog, and leaves his car in the huge abandoned parking lot, and even dares to enter the silent streets covered in an atrocious white, Mainers will look at you (we will look at him) with distrust and pity, because it is possible that the last visitors no longer even remember when or how they got here, to the same unfathomable roads that do not end, and do not recognize yourself in this new foreigner who, if you keep an eye on the edge of the waterlogged flowerbeds, near the empty sports fields and the houses on both sides, and he remains stealthy and repeats his name to himself so he can escape if he wants to., maybe you see half a faceless head giving up looking out of some porch window, or some man without hands who walks, slipping like a leper, right down the middle of the main avenue to the clock, wounded with pity and abandonment, resigned in the memory of all the winters, frozen, died of cold, actually completely dead.
Written by Maine | web Maine – in the fog of days.