The man sat
next to me
-Entered
behind him the void-
He smelled
of wine and cigarettes
The bus
jerked and moved
His armpits
ooze something nasty
I felt queasy
He groaned
-The void
collapsed with the perfume of overly make upped teenage gils resembling parakeets looking at
him then looking at me.-
The bus
stopped. Somebody yelled at a boy to move (by the god of men the boy was
subnatural) people laughed. I felt sorry for almost laughing with them then was
disgusted with my nature, I thought I was different.
The bus
filled its guts.
-An army of
dancing hats advanced, sunglasses flanked me, sweat arrested me.-
I was
unable to move.
-I threw at
them the Geneva conventions.-
I was
ignored.
Is that
mint growing in the pots?
-I marched
outside, in the yard of my prison that resembles so much my grandmother’s house.
A silk hand
grenade exploded next to me. It was poorly manufactured with pieces of Egyptian
cotton and must have severed some sort of connections in there because I lost the
ability to control my eyelids.-
I was handed
a ticket by this old woman, she wanted me to validate it using the machine next to
me. What the hell, I can barely move my arms.
-I felt
pain and fear. A kid with a lollypop stuck in its eyebrow was running, yelling,
shaking and crying. Then they released the sugary steam and my lungs stung.-
Can’t you
see there is little space for me, you and your newspaper? Let me read the
headlines, war, poverty, man doing a whole bunch of evil unto fellow man,
economy, adds, some girl with her tits exposed and a ten digit phone number.
-I was
taken hostage once again this time by a team of rebellious cycles. The tires
locked me in a cellar with pots of wine and some kind of syrupy substance I believe
they use to grease their chains and sprockets. They say I am a spy and going to
be executed.-
I looked at
the man next to me smelling of cigarettes and wine.
I try to
create him so that he is real.
But he is
ficticius
If he is
ficticius he means nothing
and I am
lonely.
