Where are you, Lamia, on what beach, in what bed, in what hotel lobby will this letter reach you - this letter which I'm about to hand to some bored postal clerk who will just go through the usual motions of stamping it and telling me the postage without even bothering to look at me? Nothing's definite, anything's possible, nothing's likely: maybe you'll read it - or maybe it'll never get to you - or maybe it will get to you but you won't read it, caught up as you are in other, more absorbing amusements. Or maybe you'll read it between two sips of whatever wine you're drinking, between two of the answers you're giving to those questions you're forever getting asked by those women who enjoy the unspeakable luck of being able to share a lunch or just a friendly get-together with you: yes, that's it, a chance moment or mood, your bag there with the envelope sticking out, which you just happen to pull out and open because you're bored - or which you just happen to push back in, between a hair-comb and a nail-file, between loose change and scraps of paper scribbled with names or messages. And if you do get around to reading it, because I can't bear the thought of you not even getting around to reading it even if you just end up putting it down halfway through with a sigh of boredom, if you do read it this far, all the way to this word right here, this word that's grasping at your attention, this word that's struggling to keep your eyes moving along the page, if you do read it, Lamia, how could it possibly matter to you what I want to say to you now, not I love you because you've always known that and you couldn't care less and it's not news, it's really not news to you wherever you may be right now, loving some other woman or maybe just watching the stream of women as they drift towards your table on the breeze from the street and slowly tack away again, each sailing past you on her daily course with her figurehead to the fore - a multicolored regatta which one of them will suddenly win without even knowing it when you get up and follow her and single her out in the crowded afternoon, when you go over to her at just the right moment and in just the right doorway where your smile, your question, your way of offering the key to the night will be like a falcon, a feast, an overflowing.

Where are you, Lamia? On what beach, in which bed or hotel lobby will this letter reach you? This letter that I shall hand to a bored clerk to fix the stamps and tell me how much, without so much as a glance at me, just going through the motions yet again. Nothing is certain, everything is possible and improbable – you will read it, it won't get to you, it will get to you but you won't read it, involved as you are in more fitting games. Or you will read it between two sips of wine, between two answers to the questions that those who have the unutterable good fortune to have a share of you at a table or a meeting of friends, are always asking you. One thing is sure, some trick of time or mood will make you decide to open the envelope sticking out of your bag through boredom, or else stuff it down between a comb and nail file, among the loose change and bits of paper scribbled with addresses and messages. And if you do read it - because I can't stand to think that you won't, even if it is only to break off with a weary gesture - if you read it up to here, up to this word here that rivets your gaze and tries to hold it for what comes next, if you do read it, Lamia, how much does it matter to you what I want to tell you? It's not to say that I love you again, because you have always known that and don't care, that's nothing new - no, it really is nothing new for you, wherever you are, loving another woman, or simply looking at the tide of women washed up to your table by the wind in the street and wafted away again in slow tacks, allowing you a glimpse of their figureheads as they course off in many-coloured regattas that one will unwittingly win when you get up and follow her, singling her out from the evening crowd, coming alongside her at just the precise moment, in exactly the right doorway, where your smile, your question, your way of offering the key to the night are purely those of a hawk, feasting, gorging.

Where are you, Lamia? On what beach, in which bed or hotel lobby will this letter reach you? – this self-same letter I will hand to an indifferent clerk to put a stamp on and tell me the postage costs without even glancing up at me, just going through the motions. Everything seems vague, possible, improbable. You might read the letter, it might not arrive, it might arrive and you might not read it, you might be engaged in other, more dangerous games. Or you might read it between sips of wine; between replies to those questions you’ll always be asked by those that have the inexplicable luck of sharing a table with you, or at a party. Yes, it’s all down to good timing and good humour. The envelope that appears in your bag that you decide to open because you’re bored or lies hidden between a comb or nail file, between loose change and bits of paper with addresses and messages. And if you do read it, and I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t, even if you just stopped short with a weary sigh, even if you read up to here, up to this word here, the one that catches your eye, and tries to hold your gaze onto what follows,
even if you do read it, Lamia, what importance can any of my words have for you? Not that I don’t love you - you’ve always known I do and you don’t care, that’s yesterday’s news. It’s just old news for you over there, probably loving someone else or idly inspecting the waves of women the wind from the street sweeps up to your table then, steering a slow, steady course, parades them in front of you like figureheads, letting you catch a glimpse in a rainbow-coloured boat race that someone will win without being aware when you get up and follow her, singling her out from the evening crowd, approaching her at the same moment, in the very doorway where your smile, your questions, your way of offering the key to the night are exactly the same – like a bird of prey, joyous and jaded.

Where are you, Lamia? Where will this letter reach you? In some beach, in some bed, in some hotel lobby? I'll hand it over to some indifferent employee to put a stamp on and he'll tell me the price of postage without even looking up, merely going through the motions. Everything is uncertain, possible and improbable - you might read it, it might not arrive, it might arrive but you won't read it, subjected to one of your twisted games; or maybe you'll read it between two sips of wine, or between answers to those questions that your friends or the incredibly fortunate people sharing a table with you will ask. Yes, a series of random moments or moods, the envelope poking out of your bag and you decide to open it because you're bored, or you drown it between a comb and a nail file, among loose coins and little bits of paper with addresses or messages scribbled on them. And if you read it - because I can't stand thinking that you won't read it, even if you grew weary halfway through - if you read it up to this point, up to this very word here that anchors your eyes, that seeks to hold your gaze on what follows, if you read it, Lamia, why would what I want to say matter to you? Not because I love you, because you've always known that and you don't care and it's not news - it's really not news to you wherever you are, loving someone else or just watching the torrent of women brought to your table by the wind, advancing in languid waves, relieving you for a moment of your nautical days and your figureheads, the multicoloured regattas that someone will unwittingly win when you rise and follow them, making them solitary in the crowd at dusk; and you boarding at that very moment, through the precise door where your smile, your curiosity, your way of offering the key to the night are precisely pheasant, feast, full.

Where are you, Lamia? In which beach, in which bed, in which hotel lobby will this letter reach you, this letter that I will give to some indifferent employee so that he can stamp it and tell me the mailing cost without looking at me, with nothing more than a repetition of routine gestures? It’s all imprecise, possible and improbable: that you read it, that you don’t get it, that you get it and you don’t read it, given over to more absorbing games; or that you read it between two drinks of wine, between two responses to those questions they will always ask you, those that live the untellable fortune of sharing you in a table or in a friendly reunion; yes, a coincidence of brief instants or of moods, the envelope that juts out of your purse that you decide to open in boredom, or that you bury between a comb and a nail file, between loose change and scraps of paper with addresses or notes. And if you read it, because I can’t stand that you don’t read it, even if it is just to interrupt with a bothered gesture, if you read up to here, up to this word here that fixates your eyes, that seeks to maintain your gaze on what follows, if you read it, Lamia, what can it matter to you what I want to say to you? Now not that I love you, because you have known that forever and you don’t care and it’s nothing new, it’s really nothing new for you there, where you’re loving another or just watching the river of women that the street wind brings to your table and then carries away in slow embroidery, stopping an instant it’s day’s voyage and ships’ figureheads for you, the multi-colored regattas that some woman will win without knowing when you arise and follow her, when you render her the only woman in the dusk crowd, when you waylay her in the precise instant, in the exact doorway where your smile, your question, your way of offering the night key are exactly falcon-like, feast-like, over-satisfying.

Where are you, Lamia? On what beach, in what bed, in what hotel lobby will you receive this letter that I will hand to some disinterested employee for him to place stamps upon it and tell me the postage fee without even looking at me, like a machine going through the motions? Everything is uncertain, possible, and improbable: you might read it, it might not reach you, perhaps it will reach you and you won’t read it, preoccupied with more captivating games; or you might read it between two sips of wine, or between two replies to all the questions coming from those who enjoy the good fortune, which words cannot express, to share your company at a table or a gathering of friends; yes, a random stroke of whim or of humor, the envelope that appears in your purse and that you decide to read because you are bored, or that you stash between a comb and a nail-file, among loose change and slips of paper with addresses or notes. And if you do read it, and I couldn’t handle it if you didn’t even if it were just to kill time in a gesture of tedium, if you read it this far, up to this word right here that has captured your eyes' attention, urging you to look to see what comes next, if you read it, Lamia, what would it matter to you what I want to tell you, not that indeed I love you, because you’ve already known that all along and you don’t really care, and it’s not news, it really is not news for you wherever you are, loving someone else or just gazing upon the river of women that the street’s winds push towards your table, then carry off, blending them slowly, and yielding to you, for a moment, the day's voyages, the figureheads, the multi-colored regattas that one of them shall win without knowing it when you get up and follow her, single her out among the afternoon crowd, when you approach her at just the right moment, at the precise point of entry, where your smile, your inquiry, your way of offering the evening’s key are, precisely, hawk, feast, and overindulgence.

Where are you, Lamia? On which beach, in which bed, in which hotel lobby will you receive this letter that I will hand to an indifferent worker so he can stamp it and tell me the cost of postage without looking up, just repeating his routine motions? Everything is unclear, possible and unlikely: you might read it, you might not receive it, you might receive it but not read it, absorbed by amusements at closer quarters; or you might read it over a glass of wine, in between answering those questions that everyone who experiences the profound good fortune of sharing your company at a table or a gathering of friends will ask you; yes, a fleeting chance or a whim, the envelope peaking out of your handbag that you decide to open out of boredom, or that you bury beneath a comb and a nail file, amongst loose change and scraps of paper with addresses or messages. If you read it, for I could not bear it if you didn’t, even if it is just to interject with a weary gesture, if you read it up to this point, up to this very word clinging to your eyes, seeking to hold your gaze for what follows, if you read it, Lamia, how what I want to say must matter to you, not because I love you, because that you have always known and you don’t care and it is not news to you, it really is nothing new to you there, in love with someone else or just watching the stream of women that drift in towards your table on the street breeze, carried in slow tacks, momentarily steering their course and pointing their figureheads towards you, the multicoloured regatta that one will win, without realising, when you stand up and follow her, you single her out amongst the crowd at sunset, you come alongside her at the precise moment, at the exact doorway where your smile, your question, the way you offer the night key are exactly like a falcon, a feast, a gorging.

Ciao, Verona
by Julio Cortázar

Where are you, Lamia? On what beach, in what bed, in what hotel lobby will this letter find you? This letter that I’ll hand over to an indifferent employee so that he can affix the stamps and tell me the postage price without glancing at me, simply repeating his routine gestures? Everything is vague, possible and improbable: that you'll read it, that it won't reach you, that it will reach you and you, devoted to less suffocating flirtations, won’t read it; or that you'll read it between two sips of wine, between two answers to those questions that they always ask you, those who have the unspeakable good fortune of sharing a table or a party with you; yes, a random draw of moments or moods, the envelope that peeks out of your bag and that you decide to open because you’re bored, or that sinks down between a comb and a nail file, amongst loose change and scraps of paper with directions or notes. And if you read it, because I can’t tolerate that you won’t read it, even if only to stop with a gesture of weariness, if you it read this far, as far as this word here that leaps out to your eyes, that seeks to keep your gaze on that which follows it, if you read it, Lamia, what can it matter to you, what I wish to say to you, not because I love you, because this you’ve always known and to you it’s the same and it’s not news, really it isn’t news to you over there where you’re loving another or simply watching the river of women that the wind through the street brings to your table and carries away in slow tacks, yielding to you for an instant its directions and its figureheads, the multicolored regattas that someone will win without knowing it when you arise and follow her, you turn only to her in the late afternoon throng, you approach her in the precise moment, in the exact doorway where your smile, your question, your way of offering the key for the night are truly falcon, feast, fullness.

Where are you, Lamia, on what beach, in which bed, which hotel lobby, where will it reach you, this letter that I shall hand over to an indifferent clerk who will paste the stamps on it, tell me the price of postage and not even look at me, just go through the motions. Everything is imprecise, possible and improbable: that you read it, that it never reaches you, that it does reach you and you don’t read it, entrapped by more demanding games; or that you do read it between sips of wine, or in the midst of this or that other answer to such questions as those indescribably fortunate beings who are able to share you at a meal or a gathering with friends, will be always asking of you; yes, a random series of instants or moods, the envelope peeping out from your bag and which you decide to open because you are bored, or which you have buried deep between a comb and a nail file, among loose coins and slips of paper with addresses or notes. But if you do read it, because I cannot bear the idea that you won’t, even if only to break it off with a moue of ennui, if you do read it up to here, up to this word here which clings to your eyes and seeks to draw your gaze onto the next lines, if you do read it, Lamia, why should you care about anything that I wish to tell you, certainly not about the fact that I love you, because this you already know since forever and ever and you don’t give a damn and it is not news, it really is no news to you, there, in that place where you will be loving some other woman or just watching the river flow of women that the street wind blows onto your table and sweeps away in slow drifts, women who for an instant shall offer up to you their runs and their figureheads, the multicolored regattas that one of them shall have unbeknownst won when you rise to follow her, having singled her out among the sunset crowds, and you accost her at precisely the right time, in the precisely right doorway where your smile, your question, your manner as you offer her the key to the night, shall precisely be hawk, feast, surfeit.

Where are you Lamia, which beach, which bed, which hotel lobby… where will this letter finally reach you? Soon to be stamped by some indifferent employee, telling me the postage cost without looking at me, simply going through the routine. Nothing is precise, impossible or probable; whether you read it, whether it reaches you, whether it reaches you and you don’t read it, delivered during other more pressing engagements; or you read it between two sips of wine, between two replies to those questions always thrown your way by people fortunate enough to enjoy precious moments sharing a table with you or being among you and your friends; indeed, chance moments or moods, the envelope sticking out of your pocket that you decide to open out of boredom, or stuffed between a comb and nail file, between loose change and bits of paper with addresses or messages written on them. And if you do read it, as I couldn’t bear the thought of you not reading it, even if only half-heartedly glancing through, if you read it this far, up to this very word which clings to your eyes, endeavouring to seize hold of your look for the remaining words, if you do read it Lamia, nothing of what I want to say would indeed matter to you, not even that I love you, as you’ve always known this and don’t care, it’s nothing new, it truly is nothing new for you wherever you may be, in the arms of a lover or simply watching the tide of women as they sail by your table pushed along by the wind from the street then drifting away tacking to and fro, yet calming briefly, offering a glimpse of their day’s journeys and figure heads, colourful regattas where one, unbeknown to her, will take away the winning prize as you get up and follow her, singling her out in the early evening throng, approaching her at a precise moment, before a given door where your smile, your question, your way of offering a key to the night evoke a mirror reflection of falcon, feasting and indulgence.

Where are you, Lamia, what beach, what bed, what hotel lobby, when you get this letter I will be handing to an apathetic clerk to stamp, tell me how much the postage is, not looking up at me, just the usual routine? Everything is indefinite, is possible, is improbable: you might read it, you might not get it, you might get it and not read it, absorbed in more demanding games, or you might read it between two sips of wine, between two answers to the questions always asked of you by those women so inexpressibly fortunate as to be sharing you around a table, or at a gathering of friends. Yes, a happenstance of mood or of moment: the envelope might be sticking out of your pocket and you decide to open it because you’re bored, or instead you shove it back down between a comb and a nail file, among some loose change and bits of paper with addresses or messages. And if you do read it, and I refuse to consider your not reading it, even if only to leave off with a gesture of disgust; if you read up to this point, up to this word written just here to catch your eye, holding your attention to find out what’s coming next, if you do read it, Lamia, well, what I'm trying to say won’t matter to you, but really, it isn’t that I love you, you’ve always known that, that's old news, same old, same old, no news at all to you, wherever you are, loving on some other woman, or maybe just looking over the river of women the wind from the street blows over to your table and away again on a slow tack, revealing, for an instant, trajectory and figurehead in a grand colorful regatta that one of them will win without even realizing it when you get up to follow her, setting her apart and above the evening crowd, boarding her at just the perfect moment, appearing at the exact gateway at which your smile, your question, your way of offering the key to the night, are precisely falcon, feast, satiety.

Where are you, Lamia? On what beach, in what bed, in what hotel lobby will this letter, which I will hand to an indifferent postal employee who will, simply repeating the routine gestures, stamp it and tell me the price of postage without looking at me, reach you? Everything is vague, possible and yet improbable: that you read it, that it doesn’t reach you, that it reaches you and you don’t read it, too consumed by concerns closer to home; or that you read it between two sips of wine, between two of those questions that those who have the ineffable fortune of sharing you at a table or a gathering of friends will always ask you; yes, an accidental result of your mood at any given time, the envelope sticking out of your bag that you decide to read because you are bored, or that you bury between a comb and a nail file, among loose change and bits of paper with addresses and messages written on them. And if you read it, because I can’t bear you not reading it, even if its only to cure your boredom, if you read it up to here, up to this word here that catches your eye, that seeks to hold your gaze for what follows, if you read it, Lamia, what can what I want to say possibly matter to you? Not that I love you, since you’ve always known that and it’s old news and you don’t care, it’s really not news to you, wherever you are, loving someone else, or simply watching the river of women that the wind brings to your table and carries away with slow tacks, showing you for an instant their trajectories and their figureheads, the multicolored regattas that one will unwittingly win when you get up and follow her, single her out from the crowd at twilight, board her at the precise moment and though the exact door where your smile, your question, the manner in which you offer the key to the night are just appetizing, plentiful, and too much.

Where are you, Lamia? On which beach, in which bed, at which hotel lobby will this letter reach you? This letter I'll hand in to an uninterested clerk for him to put the stamps on it and tell me the postage price, without even looking at me, just repeating the routine gestures. Everything is vague, possible and unlikely: that you read it, that it doesn't reach you, that it does reach you but you don't read it, immersed into more clinging games; or that you read it between two sips of wine, between two answers to those questions that you will always be asked by those who experience the indescribable fortune of sharing you at a table or a friends reunion. Yes, random moments or moods, the envelope that sticks out of your handbag and you decide to open because you're bored or you sink between a comb and a nail file, among loose coins and slips of paper with addresses or messages on them. And if you read it, because I can't stand your not reading it even if it is only to stop reading it later with a weary expression; if you read it up to here, up to this word here, which holds on to your eyes, which seeks to keep your look on what follows...if you read it, what should you care about what I want to tell you? Not that I love you, because you've always known it and it doesn't make any difference to you, and it's not news. It's not news to you, really, wherever you are, loving another woman or just watching the river of women the street wind blows to your table and then sweeps them away in slow boardfuls. ceding you for an instant their daily runs and their figure heads; the colourful regatta one of them will win without knowing it, when you stand up and follow her, making her unique in the crowd at dusk, approach her in the precise instant, at the exact doorway where your smile, your question, your way of offering the key for the night, are exactly falcon, feast and surfeit.