“But the movement of time seemed not to be fixed properly. The bloody weight of desire and the rusty anchor of remorse were blocking its normal flow. Time was not an arrow flying in a straight line. The continuing rain, the confused hands of the clock, the birds still fast asleep, a faceless postal worker silently sorting through postcards, his wife's lovely breasts bouncing violently in the air, something obstinately tapping on the window. As if luring him deeper onto a suggestive maze, this ever-regular beat. Tap tap, tap, tap, then once more - tap tap. ''Don't look away, look right at it,'' someone whispered in his ear. ''This is what your heart looks like.”
The willow branches swayed in the early summer breeze. In a small dark room, somewhere inside Kino, a warm hand was reaching out to him. Eyes shut, he felt that hand on his, soft and substantial. He’d forgotten this, had been apart from it for far too long. Yes, I am hurt. Very, very deeply. He said to himself. And he wept. In that dark, still room.
All the while the rain did not let up, drenching the world in a cold chill.”