The light changed to red. As I stopped, a ragged clown stepped in front of the car. With movements more hungry than artistic he showed me his hands: nothing here, nothing there. He took four small balls out of his pocket, lit them on fire, and tossed them into the air. The fireballs leapt from his asbestos hands over and over, not stopping or falling, faster and faster, the flames growing hotter and more intense. They were four comets in the same orbit, each following another’s wake before biting its tail to create a perfect loop encircling infinity. The hole was black for a moment but soon turned green. Swallowed by the light, I put my foot down, hard, on the gas.
Translated for South Side Weekly by Rachel Schastok.