[Pocas situaciones hay tan melancólicas como esperar en una estación antes del viaje.
Esperaba con el libro que por fin me han enviado los de Penguin, y mis botas nuevas.]

Those dutiful dogtrots down airport corridors
while gnawing at a Dunkin' Donuts cruller,
those hotel rooms where the TV remote
waits by the bed like a suicide pistol,
those hours in the air amid white shirts
whose wearers sleep-read through thick staid thrillers,
those breakfast buffets in prairie Marriotts—
such venues of transit grow dearer than home.

The tricycle in the hall, the wife's hasty kiss,
the dripping faucet and uncut lawn—this is life?
No, vita thrives via the road, in the laptop
whose silky screen shimmers like a dark queen's mirror,
in the polished shoe that signifies killer intent,
and in the solitary mission, a bumpy glide
down through the cloud cover to a single runway
at whose end a man just like you guards the Grail.

[John Updike (1999) "On the Road"]

[Melancólica es la espera y melancólico el paisaje (abulense, esta vez).
Pero si no, ¿qué tipo de road movie sería mi vida?]

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