Saturdays In Luis Ángel Arango The delicate sepia tones undulated through the window sousing the entire platform in a musky, almost tangible scent of silence. A bald man hunched over a pile of papers, spectacles pressed deep over the bulbous bridge of his nose, the ill-fitting shoulders of his jacket bunched to form a square block, and his protruding head gave him the air of some artificial tortoise monstrosity. The great bulge of his snout departed to his face a squished element, and it was ...
