What remains of the books that once stood on these shelves, now empty? Their perfume, perhaps, their spirit, the feelings they provoked? And what about the now blocked door, vanished within the smoothness of a timeless, indifferent wall? Perhaps the unsteady footsteps of a man, the desire to leave a mark before he walks into his death? And what remains of the men who trod theses streets, that stared at the facades of houses and gardens, that amused themselves leaning against the rails of now abolished balconies? Is it perhaps the echo of their footsteps what remains, the ghost of a time that does not leave anything behind?


Noé Jitrik, Buenos Aires, 1996