请帮帮我翻译一下这篇英语文章 5
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最近在清凉的晚上，一名女子在我位于Chelsea的公寓门前被杀。她睡在她的车上，当有人 — 显然是试图窃取她的汽车收音机 — 她警觉了，匪徙吃了一惊，用小刀割断了她的喉咙。
被杀女子只比我大几岁，她在报纸上的照片很面熟。不少邻居都见过到往来隔壁的佛寺，所以她是我们其中的一个 — 每天与你擦肩而过的一张脸，虽不认识，但仍然是附近的人。
这就是这故事。楼上的邻居被她汽车的喇叭声惊醒，他从窗口看着那女人从她的车摇摇晃晃地走出来，踏上寺庙的台阶，想扭转门的把手得没成功。在黑暗中，他看不清她在淌著血，但他能听到她说话的声音很奇怪，听起来像呼唤她的母亲。他想，她喝醉了，接著，他看见她回到车里，赶快把车开走。他就回去睡觉。片刻后，她就死了。
我没资格说他不对，我坐在客厅里，凶案地点就在我窗前。我睡不著，在喝热牛奶和阅读旅游杂志，对那女人在窗外不寻常的呼叫，我置若妄闻。事实上，我甚至没有想过要起座看看发生了什么事故。多年生活在纽约市把我驯服了 — 你听到的痛楚声没什么大不了，不外是醉汉或流浪者发出的。
几个小时后，当警察问我，我羞于承认我所听到的。也许那不是她，但很可能是。如果只我曾走向窗户，也许我可以做点什么。医生隔壁的说，没有人能救得了她，但是我对自己说，至少我可以抱着她，安抚她，甚至试图取得凶徙相貌的描述。至少，她不致死这么可怜，邻居们忽略她，因为他们以为她是喝醉了，而事实上，她一直在求救。
凶杀案发生后的翌日早上，我清洗受害人在行人道留下的血迹；当我一边清洗的时候，穿著西装革履的人熙来攘往，小心翼翼地避开地上的血迹，腋下夹著报纸和公文包。但似乎没有人注意或关心我在做什么，没有人询问发生了什么事。他们都把目光转开 — 免得自讨苦吃 — 把心思放在更重要的事上。有人死在这里，不外只是另一桩要归档的事件，这个光怪陆离的地方的另一个现实。
~~~~~~~~~纯人手翻译，欢迎采纳~~~~~~~~~
原文如下：
On a cool night recently, a woman was murdered in front of my apartment in Chelsea. She was sleeping in her car when someone — evidently trying to steal her car radio — was surprised by her, and cut her throat with a knife.
The woman killed was only a few years older than I, and her photograph in the papers was familiar. Many neighbours had seen her coming and going from the Buddhist temple next door, and so she was one of us — another daily face you'd pass, unknown but still part of the surroundings.
Here is the story. An upstairs neighbor, wakened by her car horn, watched from his window as the woman walked unsteadily from her car, made her way up the steps of the temple and rattled the doorknob in vain. In the darkness, he could not see her flowing blood, but he could hear her speaking strangely, asking for what sounded like her mother. She was drunk, he thought, and he watched her make her way back to the car and drive away quickly. He went back to sleep. She died a few moments later.
I cannot say I blame him. I was sitting in my living room while the murder took place right in front of my windows. In my sleeplessness, I was drinking hot milk and reading a travel magazine, ignoring the unusual murmurings of the girl outside. In fact, I didn't even think of getting up to see what might be wrong. Years of living in New York City had trained me: The pain you hear is nothing serious. It's only a drunk or a wanderer.
A few hours later, when the police questioned me, I was ashamed to admit what I had heard. Perhaps it wasn't her, but it probably was. If only I'd gone to the window, perhaps I could have done something. The doctor next door says no one could have saved her, but I tell myself I could have held her, or calmed her, or even tried to get a description of the attacker. At least she wouldn't have died so pitifully, ignored by her neighbours because they thought she was a drunk, when in fact, she was looking for help.
The morning after the murder, I washed away the victim's bloodstains that covered the sidewalk; as I did, a stream of people in business clothes walked by, neatly picking their way past the stains, papers and briefcases under their arms. No one seemed to notice or care what I was doing. No one asked what had happened. They turned away their eyes — avoiding the pain — keeping their mind on more important things. That someone died here was just another incident to file away, another fact of this strange place.
被杀女子只比我大几岁，她在报纸上的照片很面熟。不少邻居都见过到往来隔壁的佛寺，所以她是我们其中的一个 — 每天与你擦肩而过的一张脸，虽不认识，但仍然是附近的人。
这就是这故事。楼上的邻居被她汽车的喇叭声惊醒，他从窗口看着那女人从她的车摇摇晃晃地走出来，踏上寺庙的台阶，想扭转门的把手得没成功。在黑暗中，他看不清她在淌著血，但他能听到她说话的声音很奇怪，听起来像呼唤她的母亲。他想，她喝醉了，接著，他看见她回到车里，赶快把车开走。他就回去睡觉。片刻后，她就死了。
我没资格说他不对，我坐在客厅里，凶案地点就在我窗前。我睡不著，在喝热牛奶和阅读旅游杂志，对那女人在窗外不寻常的呼叫，我置若妄闻。事实上，我甚至没有想过要起座看看发生了什么事故。多年生活在纽约市把我驯服了 — 你听到的痛楚声没什么大不了，不外是醉汉或流浪者发出的。
几个小时后，当警察问我，我羞于承认我所听到的。也许那不是她，但很可能是。如果只我曾走向窗户，也许我可以做点什么。医生隔壁的说，没有人能救得了她，但是我对自己说，至少我可以抱着她，安抚她，甚至试图取得凶徙相貌的描述。至少，她不致死这么可怜，邻居们忽略她，因为他们以为她是喝醉了，而事实上，她一直在求救。
凶杀案发生后的翌日早上，我清洗受害人在行人道留下的血迹；当我一边清洗的时候，穿著西装革履的人熙来攘往，小心翼翼地避开地上的血迹，腋下夹著报纸和公文包。但似乎没有人注意或关心我在做什么，没有人询问发生了什么事。他们都把目光转开 — 免得自讨苦吃 — 把心思放在更重要的事上。有人死在这里，不外只是另一桩要归档的事件，这个光怪陆离的地方的另一个现实。
~~~~~~~~~纯人手翻译，欢迎采纳~~~~~~~~~
原文如下：
On a cool night recently, a woman was murdered in front of my apartment in Chelsea. She was sleeping in her car when someone — evidently trying to steal her car radio — was surprised by her, and cut her throat with a knife.
The woman killed was only a few years older than I, and her photograph in the papers was familiar. Many neighbours had seen her coming and going from the Buddhist temple next door, and so she was one of us — another daily face you'd pass, unknown but still part of the surroundings.
Here is the story. An upstairs neighbor, wakened by her car horn, watched from his window as the woman walked unsteadily from her car, made her way up the steps of the temple and rattled the doorknob in vain. In the darkness, he could not see her flowing blood, but he could hear her speaking strangely, asking for what sounded like her mother. She was drunk, he thought, and he watched her make her way back to the car and drive away quickly. He went back to sleep. She died a few moments later.
I cannot say I blame him. I was sitting in my living room while the murder took place right in front of my windows. In my sleeplessness, I was drinking hot milk and reading a travel magazine, ignoring the unusual murmurings of the girl outside. In fact, I didn't even think of getting up to see what might be wrong. Years of living in New York City had trained me: The pain you hear is nothing serious. It's only a drunk or a wanderer.
A few hours later, when the police questioned me, I was ashamed to admit what I had heard. Perhaps it wasn't her, but it probably was. If only I'd gone to the window, perhaps I could have done something. The doctor next door says no one could have saved her, but I tell myself I could have held her, or calmed her, or even tried to get a description of the attacker. At least she wouldn't have died so pitifully, ignored by her neighbours because they thought she was a drunk, when in fact, she was looking for help.
The morning after the murder, I washed away the victim's bloodstains that covered the sidewalk; as I did, a stream of people in business clothes walked by, neatly picking their way past the stains, papers and briefcases under their arms. No one seemed to notice or care what I was doing. No one asked what had happened. They turned away their eyes — avoiding the pain — keeping their mind on more important things. That someone died here was just another incident to file away, another fact of this strange place.
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