Play-mate Of The Apes Whach Free

Dopocristo

Cement cold humid air of August, covering the sound of the car. London Calling explains to the residents of the sleepy suburbs, the imperialist policies of the government Thacher. I am holding my lucky shot, pass it between his fingers, covering fingerprint. Backlight returns all its golden haze. I like to pet it, go to the cheeks. It gives me the feeling of domarne violence. How to pet a guard dog, or a circus lion. One of those animals that can jump out of the blue from behind and eat you. I can almost walk on. Under the metal nose breathing its perfume, and that bitter aftertaste of gunpowder. I lift up my eyes to the rearview mirror. The football pitch, vacuum. An envelope, pushed by the wind, find playmates. In the building next to the field, a dog barks at the window. Her owners have left out, in order to grant the regular weekly targets. I'll be back with eyes in the car. If I'm not wrong I must have left a Cannetta in the ashtray. There it is fact. The first puff is not necessary. It's just a censing the environment. A cover of the atmosphere. A smoking concert. Create the clouds clear and dark enough. My tongue is swelling in the throat. I can taste fill my mouth round. I look at my watch. How the fuck does it take? I go back to the rearview mirror. Once the envelope is no longer there. You will surrender to the void of the early afternoon. Even the dog has stopped barking. Now wags excitedly at the window. The owners have done. This time faster than usual. A man: tank top, shorts and sandals made of wood, stroking the animal with his free hand on his cigarette. It seems an confidence men. - It's done, I drilled! - The dog, he seems almost to provide care for a while, but then fled immediately to the couch. The last shot. All in one breath. Hold in the lungs longer and crush the filter in the ashtray. I throw everything out. A sigh on life. I grab what's left of the barrel between the thumb and forefinger and snap the way to the pitch. I'll be back the clock. Still nothing. I look at the strip of sky that I can see the car. The swallows are moving at V in search of something. I remember that guy I saw yesterday on TV. An American, who launched from great heights with a hang glider, following the paths of eagles. I remember thought - who knows how you feel when you're up there? Flying. And observe all the sewage flowing down - I see myself on my car, on the football field, above the dog and his master emptied over the building, above the block, above the lost city, over the entire world drowning. I withdraw more and more, I do not feel anything anymore. Not even a noise. Just my breath, and heartbeat. But with an echo of hell. An echo that stuns me. I burst my eardrums. I'll be back in the mirror. Still none. On the radio talking about a catastrophe. Experts calm down. Stutter something. I continue my bullet in his hands. It is hot this time. It almost seems to have absorbed my smell. I grab for the base. Bring it to eye level and then higher, between the eyebrows and hair. Support its tip to the skin. It looked from the mirror. None.