Hello, Piccirilli. I've done it. I'm not completely satisfied with the result, but I shall conceal place now or forever XD
Good reading.
After ' intro last time ...
Trip Fontaine, "Snapshots"
Pix walking down the street with his nose in the air, times. She likes to feel the sun on the neck, the rain on the face, the wind in your hair black, and no thought to claw the brain.
But there are other times. Other days, those black and blue - pale color, color paranoia - that maybe the rays are equal in the air, the atmosphere vibrates the same, but she did not. These are the times that the memory of the cage opens up suddenly, a creaking of hinges startled the old rusty lock, and all that has never failed to remind the entire violently resurfaces.
E 'then give the legs by anxiety and a rain of mental snapshots teaches fear. E 'then that anger eats, reaction, and play smash Molotov cocktail of beer and rags against the walls behind the school and the cars parked along the paths maniacally. E 'then shaking decides to destroy his innate lucidity as if he knew who was to die tomorrow. Because one day will be tomorrow. Might as well be ready. And fuck you.
I knew her, Pix. With me was one that had never been. It made me the greatest gift, the only possible. Without spitting. Without insults. With infinite love. That was, Pix. What is his nickname dick, a real name because, well, in some places costs too much. And with the crisis, the better to be the goblin of someone who kicked a zero on the sidewalk by anyone. But what do you care so much.
Maybe his name was Christine. Hopefully, any day of any month of the beginning of the nineties ridiculous - no matter the date, there is no deadline, only memories, and you'll be the same gastritis - the midwife had taken out dirty little cradle and placed in a hot condition clue of phrases and clichés in the arms of someone who preferred to Sylvia, Justine, Lala, Elaine. Patricia. Nora. Or maybe not. Perhaps even then he was a bundle of pain, a small burden of responsibility and punishment for someone who had no intention of recognizing the burden - but it had folded over her mourning, you know, our beloved cocker spaniel.
Pix This has never said, however. He did not know, maybe, or did not want to know. What I shared some nights when we went down to fix the lake, or vodka in front of the two recovered money to the store I was little. He was very even, because he poured out his head and poured into the mine - but it was little, all things considered. I know it force them out, but as it began - who is the culprit, who had dared to pull off her green cloud in the midst of this sea of shit that he accepted it so bad - I just do not know this. Excuse me.
He had a plan. Mica always with her was so, there were mornings of proposals and projects and rivers of words hilarious and crazy with anger and then died of hunger afternoon sleep of boredom anxiety of desire to vomit and tears. It was always difficult to follow, but I done - in every price hike, every swing.
She smiled at the end. Mood swings, it is said, for the rush as his, because his mood was swinging, ever.
E 'dead this twenty-seventh of April this year, in the pouring rain.
Or maybe it away with a different name and a new plan in a different city certain places, and laughs and runs and lives and dreams. And hopefully, true to its color.
But for me died that day, the day of rotten wood, creaking boards, the day of blood down the stairs The day I lost two teeth and balance and name. Why I I had it, that one. April. Ha. What a fucking irony. Who's laughing now?
but will be back to take a day - he promised me.
Every day I look out and look crazy time, one in which she talked and I listened and then looked around the shit stink less, seemed less shit, our time, time that will - and every day after midnight, the three become four, five, six. Dawns. I cry. And it's time for another pill of shit. And in the end die a little 'too.
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