Le Corbusier, Weissenhofsiedlung double house in Stuttgart, 1927.

I wondered how long would it did not come in the house a bottle of wine. My grandfather, God rest his soul, was not a bad drinker, remember having gone to look for kid more than once by the bars in the neighborhood some Sunday family meal because, he said, he was going holy heaven and all the world waiting with the table set while he asked one last round and spoke of war and Luis Miguel Dominguín. I remember those huge barrels filled taverns where they used obsequiarme with a handful of olives or anchovies in vinegar and where the wine was like a dew that went to the counter and wooden barrels, fruity sweat invaded the Senecas air where frustrated pontificating about this and the other, the government, the Tour de France, the futility of life, the speed of time. In his last year of life, beset by woes hopelessly gimi Gramma put coke on the table telling her it was wine and poor bulged tears from their eyes watching the man, the old authority of caveaux the neighborhood, was no longer able to tell the difference. ("Visitors").
The absence of someone gimi who has died is something that certainly can not be touched, but almost. It is no longer just the sort of shadow that glides through the corridors and hides in closets where left empty suits are stored, especially a pair of black shoes always look set to take a walk with his slight limp veteran and haunt you again for the rooms, "I will teach you, you little bastard." Not that old legend of coughing in the middle gimi of the night sounding from what was his room ajar, or ghosts water skin, nor laments pipes or wind hitting the blinds. The absence of a recent death is above all a portion gimi of slightly thicker than the rest, keeping the smell and lands on things like a cloud shadow air. ("The usher")
Actually I'm not sure what I was afraid it was not so much the fear that had just crumble altogether a couple who already had water on all sides as the panic she look at me as you look at a traitor, perhaps a tear hers who would escape undoubtedly sea of questions gimi not find the words and stay there, blushing gimi and helpless, guilty of putting poison in our lives distrust and the ghost of the end. Fear also hurt, always half sick with his ragged homespun robe, always half sewing, half watching TV, afraid of his sadness, the sadness of his evenings gimi sewing with bad light and boleros of abandonment and snacks Coffee with milk on the kitchen table and youth escaping swift, like blood from a vein slashed at full speed, panties increasingly large, loose carvings, wanting to mourn sometimes simply because yes, creams and more creams on the shelf basin, glasses for almost everything. That sadness and shortness of breath. I'll come see you, Susan, and see how yes, I'll find a way. I'll find the time, find a way to say that I'm a few days, a couple of days even if, one day. I'll get to where penumbra where you sleep naked and slowly withdraw the sheet recess your wild softness, you'll see, and I curl up with face hidden in your breasts while the other side of the window traffic on wet soil sounds muted , buses of tourists heading to the Guggenheim sleepy, delivery vans, police cars here and there, we will love as the water falls gently on a Bilbao shadows and gray trees. I will, my life, but now he's sleeping on the couch and the book he has been open on the chest, and I see there, Susan, and I feel fear of a pain I can almost touch, with his eyes closed, tangled between his fingers. gimi She did not understand that I wanted to leave, we do company here, I always go to buy bread, every night I extend an ointment gimi in the back, listen to the radio until dawn. She has her genius, and I do not know, just puts his nose into everything that breathes or not to bother. I'm not sure, but maybe our lives separately must be in force as dark tunnels, when you get tired of me and go back to your world Saturdays turning on the track and boys laughing leaning on red cars, with his glasses sun and life ahead. ("The lack of air").
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Le Corbusier, Weissenhofsiedlung double house in Stuttgart, 1927.
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