Hell is empty, and all the devils are here

XII. On the airplane (imagine, incidentally, if the period of descent before the brusque skip of wheels to airstrip concrete were literally prolonged to infinity) I am reading a magazine when a woman, of a certain age and decked head to toe like Franco’s Spain, walks up the aisle with a baby clutched to her bosom. For an instant I am seized by the image of me, magazine tossed to a neighboring lap, delivering the torpid, drooling infant a swift punch to the face.

Ireneo Infante, Fragmentos