He liked to come home at night

He liked to come home at night

“[..] He liked to come home at night and walk for blocks and blocks without seeing anyone.  He liked the color of the streetlamps and the light that spilled over the fronts of the houses. The shadows that moved as he moved. The ashen, sooty dawns. [..]  The pain, or the memory of pain, that here was literally sucked away by something nameless until only a void was left.  The knowledge that this question was possible: pain that turns finally into emptiness. The knowledge that the same equation applied to everything, more or less.”

– Roberto Bolaño

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