Bil je začetek velikega požara, delali smo seznam detajlov naslanjač, v katerem je umrl, drevesa, zanemarjene vzpenjavke ki so praskale po oknu. Nisem se mogel znebiti zvokov. To je izničevanje, udarjanje delavniške ure. Odpovej se svojemu položaju med izložbenimi lutkami, je rekel brez sape v množici posojevalcev. Ugasni motor in vsi korakajo v taktu. Skalpel najde lastno pot do jedra in njegova učenka grobnica se že kosa z gospodarjem. Ne moremo na polja ki pobliskavajo v vzvratnem ogledalu, k trumam mrtvih, ki plavajo vsaksebi. Spijo na usmrajeni slami. Občinstvo je zdaj nevidno, bralna komisija razpuščena, in tako se spet srečava, monsieur moliere, in listi odpadejo kot bankovci ki se usipajo iz bankomata, v kompostnih kupih skalnih bivakov. Jasno je bilo, da se bova tu razšla jasne uspavanke, ki pridejo med naju. Kje piše, da se vlak na mestu ustavi v zimski temi, ker sva požrla svoje besede. Trenutek kljubovalnosti je bil da sem pometel z drobci in ne umaknil pogleda. To je neprebojno steklo in najbližja tekoča voda je daleč stran, na poti v obroč borov in nevidno praznino Irskega morja.
Prevod: Jernej Županič
It was the start of the great fire, we were listing the minutiae the chair he died in, the trees, the neglected vines clawing at the window. I could not rid myself of the sounds. This is the cancelling-out, the striking of the work-house clock. Resign your place among the mannequins, he said out of breath in the crowd of lenders. Cut the engine now and everyone is in step. The scalpel finds its own way to the core, and its protege, the tomb is the rival of his master. We cannot go in the fields that flash in the rear-view mirror, to the throngs of the dead drifting apart. They sleep on fetid straw. The audience is now invisible, the reading committee suspended, and so we meet again, monsieur moliere, and the leaves drop away like notes falling from the ATM, in rock-shelter middens. We were always going to part here the lullabies that come between us. Where is it written the train stops dead in winter dark, because we have eaten our words. It was the impudence of a moment to stare you out, brushing away shards. This is unbreakable glass and the nearest running water is far away, bound for a circlet of pines and the invisible emptiness of the Irish Sea.
