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The limits of misfortune

I no longer have the desire or strength to write. I'm tired of pouring my false fictions, my little dream ends by pretending not to believe.

I write and think as I buy a tea machine in college, four yellow pieces to slide into the slot and one or two key presses: for months, the cup was there; it fills up, I expect the chirp feverishly and liberating. I want sugar, but I am afraid to burn their fingers and lips. I forgot Brewed color too and the taste of Ceylon. The last time was last winter and since that day I tried everything to keep my hands warm, sheltered from the cold . thrust into the pockets of my pea coat, mittens, gloves, mittens, fists connected against the warm breath of my mouth useless. Darjeeling, ginseng, mint, lemon. Nothing did. It is not my heart, my hands are cold, all red and cracked, to the wrist, up my watch too much. (You know, black.) Always right wrist. To think that I am deliberately leaving them out, my hands hanging and dead, that you take in the yours. Myself, I would never drag them in your pockets.

But it's too long to explain. Unless you take your afternoon, and you offer me tea.

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Greeks. Those damn Greeks.

'Seems to say yes, they shake their heads from right to left, to say no, it's up and down. And then a semicolon in them is a question mark here. It is not easy to get used to the contrary, move from black to white twinkling of an eye, perpetual culture shock and surprise over the job, huh.

Total incomprehension. They go for disturbed, the Greeks. And then, with their weird alphabet, signs and winding all broken, they make anyone laugh. They are pathetic and have names that never writes the right way the first time. They have a tone in their voice warm and nonchalant, which prints a mocking smile on the lips of another. Fatally. It's not their fault, of course. But God knows why, we do not take them seriously.

Their skin always feels the chalk of their islands, it is a little cloud of nostoi , you know what I mean? They look to the east, there, towards the blue and white, white and blue. You can see it right there in the whites of their eyes. As in the cartoons. Scratches in the iris, and a cross in the top left. Pile hair on the conjunctiva, hop. Are bizarre, the folks ...

Good. I am perhaps a bloody Greek, then.

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Spleen future

is where dreams evaporate into hundreds of thousands of gray lenses. There are times where the trouble comes fast, you know ... When you are when you do, when we ...

The moon is too faithful ally. It melts on my shoulders, sometimes, like Judah embracing Jesus, then it hits, resonates throughout the brain, in every corner of my mind. If once and for all eternity we could ... We liked ... But who is we?

This candle is perched on the windowsill - in my lonely window, the last bulwark against the hostilities night - look at me with his red wax lying on the floor, hands shot in the ceiling. No sound and I hear Sigur Ròs echoing from the depths of the ages unto the limits of the species. The heart and poumme Toumma, inaudible, just sensitive. Stay! ... And if we had taken the time to tell. Everything. Would have been different?

in the mood I regret with a passion extinguished and cold to my stomach knotted ridiculous. I would have been different, as much as you. It seems that the figures are changing because the world is reversible. The cat flies, gracious in her feline race, sensual, precious, the dog is drowning, but happy is against trains submarines, these miraculous banks tits gold and azure. In the middle do I find? In-between, always at the intersection of these roads that invisible force me bar. Sometimes you, sometimes me, sometimes that, and yet other days even the Other. Where am I?

If only the memories do not disappear in my memory dirty ... Polished by time, wind-rock, the scraps that are left cronies, and that the moon is a traitor, dissolve when I did not realize their impending absence. And that emptiness, the abyss, the abyss, the abbess, m'abaissent ceases ... of ... exist ... The time is greedy, gambling to be prevails straightforward, legally: too many words for the ills afflicting never apprehended do a little more.

Yet the vast wave that is beyond window, plains, valleys, basins, oceans, countries and continents across the world perhaps, invites me to live again, a little bit, told me that this place some disembodied await the gathering of men, and they will wait, even if it does not see it coming, then they die will say "I lived for nothing, for while I lived. "

Let us lose all the strongholds of our ancestors, do not keep our nose to closed cases, when everything vanishes by the heights of an infinite universe beyond us.

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Copyright: INA

And soon, you never know when the urge will point the tip of his nose!

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aujoud'hui bookstore, soon on the screens and on this blog: "True Grit"

"True Grit" - Mattie Ross

Christmas is past the year 2011 - I wish you very beautiful (it is never too late!) full of wonders and literary buffs, aesthetic - is already well underway and yet I still have not found a way to come back a little at least here ... The intention was there, the availability of mind a little less. But it's coming, yes yes!

to start with the great and wonderful novel by Charles Portis , "True Grit" in bookstores today, but I could devour A few weeks ago already, though I selfishly ...

also had the opportunity to see a sneak preview last Friday "True Grit" Cohen brothers. Wonderful, and yet I am demanding a spectator, I still have a little trouble with the film adaptations novels that I loved ... But I

hear about it soon, time to get back to my keyboard ...

Meanwhile, just to give you a little envy, I leave you with the film's trailer:

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January 14, 2011: Long live freedom

This blog has been censored in Tunisia on 06/05/2010. Since I've only published one article. I was desperate to find it blocked every time and having to maneuver to gain access. There has even a few days I intended to close permanently.

Since January 13, 2011, all blogs and websites censored in Tunisia are free. Since January 14, 2011, we became a free people:).

I publish here a text that I wrote while returning from the demonstration on 14 January. This Tunisian revolution which we are all proud. Text or mingled pride, hope and fear, unfortunately. A real belief in me says that this fear will dissipate soon.

And finally, I am:)

Today January 14, 2011 will be remembered. We descended into the streets. Thousands of Tunisian shouted slogans and raised banners that nobody imagined. Today we called freedom, victory, we applauded the departure of those who have stolen and won. Any Tunisia rose with one voice, with one call, a Democrat Tunisia, tunisia a Free, No to oppression No to Corruption.

That same evening of 14 January, we unfortunately scared. We could not live our victory, we are unable to show our joy. Tonight, it is stolen, rob and plunder. The fear is that our doors are smashed at any moment. All families are grouped in a single room. Alerted the senses, nerves awake. Many of us can not sleep for more than a week. On this day we do not want to sleep because you're afraid of being nipped in our sleep.

On January 14, we got freedom of expression, we give our opinion spontaneously, all the media filming us and we sent our voice, loud and louder than ever. On the other hand, it has never been so steeped in insecurity. It has never been so scared for our lives, for our own.

At or write these words, helicopters sweep the sky of my city, looters go in the 404 sheeted clotted with threatening glances. All the stores around are emptied of their contents. The night we got our freedom, we do not know what tomorrow will bring, but a feeling tells me have hope and be confident. We recovered our dignity, we are more than ever proud to be Tunisian, more than ever proud to have achieved what we want at the price of blood indeed, but dignity is priceless.

Right now, there's looters are moving in the surrounding streets. All men and women are out, careful to defend what is left to defend. There is more strength in order to protect us, we must protect ourselves with our hands, our voices ...

If we continue on foot tomorrow, we need to think about rebuilding what was destroyed, to remove the traces of what has been burnt. Now is not that one can judge the guilty, but until the priority is to reorganize and return to order. Order we must also impose ourselves by dint of shouting and sacrifice.

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From loneliness to solitude life

And the perfect blue sky shakes his scars. Aircraft. They pierce through and through. I see you and you go, my eyes looking for you.

I see you and you go: you're next door and you think about me taking off. You ask a tea hostess. It is not even pretty, not even hot tea. The pilot has a horrible accent Bavarian you a giggle and coughs as well as possible. Your neighbor speaks Turkish in his sleep.

I see you and you go: you forget to put your seatbelt for landing, you wanted to finish your first chapter. The aircraft is indeed the only means of transport where you can read without nausea. The hostess just now hands you a lemon candy for not the ears become clogged. You roll the sweet realm beneath the waves of your tongue, you take out banging against your front teeth. The window you get lost in cotton.

Your lips stretch into a smile. you return home.

I see you and you go ... But saying you do not want to stay a little longer ... ?

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Seasons

Lord, I'm in the neighborhood of good thieves,

Vagabonds, of bare-feet, receivers of stolen goods.

I think the two thieves who were with you to the gallows,

I know you deign to smile upon their misfortune.

Lord, one would like a rope with a knot at the end,

But it is not for free, rope, it costs twenty cents.

He reasoned like a philosopher, that old scoundrel.

I gave him opium for him to go faster in paradise.

I also think the street musicians, the violinist

blind, the penguin who turns the barrel organ,

A singer in a straw hat with pink paper;

I know they are the ones who sing throughout eternity.

Lord, let them alms, other than the glow of gas lamps,

Lord, let them alms big money down here.

Lord, when you died, the curtain was torn,

What we saw behind, nobody said it.

The street is in the night like a tear

Full of gold and blood, fire and peelings. Those

you from the temple with your whip, flog

passers of a handful of misdeeds.

L'Etoile, which disappeared when the tabernacle,

Burns on the walls in the harsh light shows.

Lord, the Bank is illuminated as a safe,

Where did the coagulated blood of your death.

The streets are deserted and become darker.

I reel like a drunken man on the sidewalk.

I'm afraid of large swathes of shade houses project.

I'm afraid. Someone is following me. I dare not turn his head. A

not limping jumps closer and closer.

I'm afraid. I have vertigo. And I stopped on purpose. A fearful

looked at me funny

Acute and spent, bad like a dagger.

Lord, nothing has changed since you no longer king.

Blaise Cendrars, The Easter New York

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Nights

" - I bring you my best wishes. - Thanks, I'll try to do something. " (J. Fox)

And subwoofers vibrate the air, alcohol and disappointment flow freely. A box of cigarillos raisin sits atop the coffee table. A couple made love in the next room: the voice hoarse Springsteen does not cover noise from the bed that moves. Clara smokes on the balcony, it is 0:02, it is already tomorrow. Behind her are heard loud voices, we are throwing good year healthy slam and kisses on the cheeks reddened. Under her in the street, cars are parked and honking occasionally.

The cat is rubbing his legs, purring. Clara hardly noticeable. Well Well, two thousand eleven: what does it change? This year I either do not write good resolutions. Obstinate in the winter. Clara throws her cigarette over the parapet of stone. Yeah, what good ?

She slid and slammed the door-window: one looks, one would expect. She uncapped a beer while trying to ignore all this little world that watches. She turns around with tears in her eyes, broken voice. Bon bah, eh good year. Nobody replied, turning the head, we find it so miserable. Clara then grabs his duffle coat, pulls on his Brandenburg cursing everyone and descends in the poorly lit street.

Go to hell with all your good year, "she grumbles, salty lips in his wool scarf.

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We shared two

Sometimes in the morning, when it was absorbed by a solitary task, just busy picking mushrooms or raspberries, or sewing, or reading a book of philosophy that bothered him, but he had to cultivate for himself, or read with interest the letter and ashamed of the heart or a women's weekly horoscope, she got suddenly whispered tenderly two words, without meaning to, without thinking of him. My love, she got on murmur. You see, my darling, "she said then the absentee, you see, even when I do not think about you, that I think of you.

A. Cohen ,

Belle du Seigneur

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Merry Christmas!

"Suddenly, I have a dreadful urge to Be Merry"

Click to enlarge

Charles Addams

(from My crowd )

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The Haunted Tea-Cosy @ Edward Gorey

Edmund Gravel, a misanthropic old bachelor, is preparing to celebrate one as usual this Christmas Eve, while sipping a cup of tea and a slice of pudding very stale (" from The Last One He Had Received More than a decade ago" ), when the tea-cozy very useful to keep the tea warm for hours s' escaped a strange creature: (click to enlarge)

"I am the Bahhum bug"! and I'm here to help you discover "The Interest of didacticism !

(roughly the interest that one has to look around, it's so informative, is not it, especially on Christmas Eve!)

Thereupon a second character to -like spectrum knocking.

"I'll show you particularly touching scene."

As we at Edward Gorey is not it, do not expect sweet ...

Orphans, abandoned dogs, paintings flew, strange strange ...

spectrum takes them in thought or a flying carpet all over the village where astounding scenes, not really endearing unfold before their eyes (Alma Crumble broke his wrist while kneading the dough vigorously pudding, for example!).

Enough, Will heinous in character, it directs the chafer tea cozy. Comes another spectrum, which promises this time quite scary scenes ... Of course, from bad to worse ...

Appears at once the vision of a kidnapped by Alfreda Crumble Gypsies, while in the cemetery were dug up a coffin in a freshly dug grave containing very mysterious old newspapers ....

Enough, enough! Another spectrum appears, "this time I'll make you see the scene at heartbreaking."

better and better, as you note.

" To the house opposite Fido WAS Returned From The taxidermist and Set Down by the fireplace. "

It does not take over our old misanthrope to start , terrified, into writing a small stack of invitations ... Like what, the effect did not wait ..

The Fall of the story? Gorey's pure, of course!

In fact the subtitle of the story was:

A dispirited and distasteful diversion for Christmas.

If you would have doubted:)
After all these emotions, I do not know about you, but I'd rather have a cup of tea ...

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Days toxic Roxana Robinson

Julia Lamberts, Professor of Art New York artist in his own right, receives her parents for a few days in the old homestead in Maine she has patched up with her ex husband and she keeps carefully as the receptacle of all the years, the fortunate ones childhood of his son, they also lost her wedding .... I must say it is struggling to rebuild her life, Julia ... And his father, a brilliant neurosurgeon retired, older now, it does not facilitate the task, always cynical, hard and quick to blame more or less hidden. But they are there now, and will do everything to make them enjoyable few days of vacation despite the tension that already installed. Rapid chain of events and not for the better ... His eldest son come around without warning, strange ... to teach him, by ellipses, as Jack, the youngest, shoots himself to heroin ... All

collapses.

Atmosphere camera family where tensions are exacerbated when the unspoken explode have been suppressed for so long. All will have to speak or learn to do to try to save Jack, family therapy is taking place, in spite of themselves. Roxana Robinson excels

to stage what could be a tragedy theatrical - almost unity of place, time and action, including some violent flashback on the descents into hell Jack. But more so I deeply etched in this novel bitter and hard, it is the reflection on the body, its importance and forfeiture which runs throughout the narrative as the weft of the carpet ... The body as a "presence" on the other, the vector itself to be more than just a receptacle.

" How is it, she thought, that when someone sees all the thoughts and emotions of the disembodied person in this aggregate figure, this presence? How the body manages Is it contain all the density be? "The body just

which inevitably deteriorates as a result of old age, disease or drugs ... The body which blunted not only changes our relationship to others, but also same perception we have of themselves and each other ...

Old age that carries all, while it sacked the body, like the tide erodes and wears down to the bone, before withdraw.

" Those persons no longer existed. His father was now barely able to walk, his mother struggled painfully to follow the conversation. His parents were being adrift, engaged in a losing battle against their bodies and minds. the tide went out. "

And drugs, drugs that changes things from the point of not being able to recognize them ... The drug, such as old age, in short, but accelerated.

A very novel and exciting, uncompromising and decidedly not cure your blues to soul ...

Editions Buchet Chastel

- September 2010

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When Willard Daniels Winsville reinvests his property in Virginia, who is married longer, the little town no longer has eyes only for this couple strangely alien-like.

must say that Vienna, the young bride, stands out in this provincial middle and narrow. Very quickly, it is available, we pin and is jealous ... Is not this "blue Lower New York who had two years of college behind her and stripped from Paris, who could play the piano and spoke foreign languages, who had blond hair and a woman Cleanroom, shoes and gloves for different times of the day, a marble bust of Quintilian and four trunks full of books - more than in the rest of Winsville. . "Just think, a rare bird that does not condescend to stay for tea and flies away at every opportunity ...

Willard and Vienna had two children before the master of the house from escaping in turn, leaving her alone with the whole field to manage ...

Far from "falling into line", now fled Vienna contact with micro Winsville company, exclusively engaged since his long poem (" supposed to imitate an epic Virgil by the structure, the magnitude Dante and Pope at the bottom, it announced ambitious timidly but ironically "), education of his children, or culture of its trees ... All without a academic ounce.
" In this way, it had reached a singular equilibrium, in which the brain and the secular intertwined physically and spiritually as the crossed arms carved fruit trees. It was modeled on the trees she knew and loved, and imitated the genius of nature that allowed them to be firmly anchored into the ground by the force of gravity, while crowning the sky, embracing at the same time the earth and the heavens. "
Willa and Elliot, children, growing up between readings in Latin and walks through the acres of property, hyper little savages cultivated and heightened sensitivity.

But what about a mother who places books more than any top and certainly well beyond religion:

" Promise me that you read them, he had muttered Vienna one day, raising his hand to show the rows of volumes which lined his office. They can save you. "

Trees, books, and a look at times, mad ... mad with grief, in fact, life definitely it does not make her gift ... But

mad, the term is dropped and more than once. Mad for 'different', the drama is there and the misfortunes that follow. How can we be different in a world so small, so full of prejudice without going crazy for the house. The house and gardens as a whole. This woman can fix the harelip another forward, while others look away in disgust ...

This long look, indecent to others, will forever mark, one that we deal with cripple

" To act as a stranger, I think must be someone special. So remember, being different does not make you someone special, but being special someone makes you different . "

The rest of the book is in the light of this sentence, between humanism , exuberance and pride to remain one while you are at the bottom of self in the most complete extravagance, a good kick to the conventions of diehard.

And in the foreground, of course, childhood personified by Willa and Elliot, two young fanatics in the image of their mother, eccentric and deeply endearing.

" You see her little hands? She asks, Buba. This means that there must be a God even if the bees die when they pray! "exclaimed Elliot, ignited ...

Exciting, touching, moving, dramatic, you will not soon forget Vienna, Willa, still less the little Elliot, the last page of the book tour.

Ardent, yes, the good term ... As for Sanctuary, you'll see why ...

" The important thing here, now. Paradise is the Chopin nocturne you just play the piano, these are the fields and trees that have heard. This is not the future that you have to whisper, but the present. "

The brown:" A color so melancholy, like the back of a sparrow: it is the perfect color of regret. "

Editions Quai Voltaire - September 2010

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The many lives of Frankenstein @ Andre-Francois Ruaud

Frankenstein or the creature seamed stole the name, the star and immortality to its creator, Dr. Victor Frankenstein, now forgotten ...

monster without a name, never named, yet it ends in the collective imagination by endorsing the surname of his "father" cursed, robbing him at once his name and his life.

And yet, without Victor, no creature, the irony .... It was time to make justice and finally emerge from the shadows where they were buried deep life and destiny of those who gave birth to one of the most famous monsters of our history, one that the image God gave life from nothing.

For Victor Frankenstein did exist, of course, like his monster elsewhere. They made that cross, God be praised for posterity, destiny a small splinter group also well known, the clan of Shelley, Byron and Polidori.

So get ready to know all or most of the birth of Victor through the creation of the monster to Frankenstein's tragic end in the middle of the polar ice ... What about the monster, the eternal, the legends about him succeed, but it could well have survived.

double game, con game, a huge game anyway and forth and death between Victor and his monster like an incessant play of mirrors, one chasing the other, before the roles are s' reverse. But how Mary Shelley said she would witness a beautiful day while she was staying in the now famous Villa Diodati become? The answer and assumptions (supported) between these pages devilishly exciting the pen of Andrew Francis advised Ruaud ...

Accurate, documented, illustrated, these " Many Lives of Frankenstein " devour in one go and make you want to dive back illico between the pages of Mary Shelley, whose life was also surprising that a novel (which modernity, what misfortunes cascades also ...).

short, a real treat!

Note, The many lives Frankenstein is the eighth volume of The Library Red of Electric Sheep . Collection a bit special and how gratifying as it proposes to us to discover or rediscover the great figures of popular literature in the form of biographies, exactly, yes, as if these characters had actually existed ...

Delighted by this discovery (I actually eyeing for some time this collection), I just got The many lives of Miss Marple Baudou of Jacques, I could not escape it!)

A big thank you to Critical Mass Babelio for this beautiful and monstrous discovery!

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We must believe in And a smile

" You know, sometimes when you laugh, it sounds like you cry "

Camille smiled as he said that, a casual air, aimlessly accurate. Lola does not know what to do: net stop his laughter, his smile hangs hesitant. Gosh, he guessed, pesta internally Lola. I'm so transparent that? It is true that it will not, at this moment, especially with George. It is remote. And even when he is there by Lola, it is absent, he said nothing. It looks like a puppet. A scarecrow with a false heart, a heart that beats setbacks.

Camille and Lola met last year. She remembers it like it was yesterday, it was the first day of school: Camille Lola had rushed down a hallway of the university, apologized then presented, and since then, they were inseparable.

He told her pretty things, she made him laugh. His skin was soft and he smelled of peppermint. His hands were hot as a bread from the oven, but her laughter was chilled to the heart. A blow hot, blow cold one. Sometimes she just wanted him to be silent the rest of the time, does not see or hear it hurt too much to Lola. She wanted to shake him by the shoulders, telling him to stop being so good and beautiful, to be as wild and unstable. Anyway, it would not have taken seriously. He did not take seriously. She quickly began to tremble, to think about him all the time, for a song, a smell, a phrase she had read it somewhere. And when she realized it, she blamed herself terribly. It was a disrespect! A banging against the walls. She could hate in those moments. Think of it, while George is there any cons it! so close he could hear another boy love him ...

" It does not show too much, I hope? From the outside, I mean ... "

" No, do not worry, I'm the only "

Camille, the only one who can read Lola as an open book ... They continue to talk, to laugh. The tram arrives sliding along the sidewalk. It is time, time to say goodbye. Lola sighed softly, thinking of the night ahead. Camille takes the hand of Lola, the greenhouse slowly and his eyes are awfully tired. Lola gets on the tram, a bit dazed. They follow the gaze while the tram restarts.

But George stands behind Lola, he wanted to surprise him and wait at the station. He saw everything without understanding. After a few minutes, Lola turns around and looks at: the tears stream down his cheeks reddened and her makeup was a little cast. And thin.

He knows .

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Sophie still smoked. It has all the pupils dilated. They devour the room, you can not see it.

Earlier, she was crouched in a bathroom on the floor in shades of blue, and swore it was the last time. The last time she smoked? Or the last time she thought of Paul? She watched the rise and scrolls lick the ceiling. It made her think of him, again. And she caught herself thinking about him just by watching this. Smoke. What's the fucking report? Ah yes. Paul is vanishing . It is there when he wants, every other day, when it takes him, when he wants to be told pretty things. And there she is, she waits. It the awaits. The Misfortunes of Sophie, you talk.

Then she pulled herself together and tried to think of something else. She looked straight ahead. Under the sink, He ran a huge mess. An old box cakes from Brittany, a candle, a curling iron, medicines. She saw her reflection in the pipes. A huge head with a tiny body. "Welcome to the world of Sophie" she hissed between his teeth. Throat full of smoke, she resolved to read the user manual for a shampoo that was lying. For hair dull and flat, Cien haircare, fruit acid . Bingo, she did not think Paul for the space of a minute. It should have read slower.

She said she felt like crying, just like that. But she never succeeded crying while smoking. God knows why. And then she did not want the evening ends, to go to bed alone and cold in his sheets. Not sleepy. Never again, never sleep. never sleep without him .

It was relative: it was his birthday. You go out there, Soph. It's not every day you turn nineteen years. Then she went out the door creaked behind her. With it, the ashtray.

And a smile.

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For my birthday, my mother gave me a pocket watch, she knows that I like antiques. It is a mechanism skeleton, we see all the cogs turning and the keys move. The second hand does not jump jerkily, she slips on the dial, as free. I wore it to my ear. I always hated ticking watches. But his ticking to it, it's magic, light and fluid ... I have already readjusted several times an hour. The mechanism is fragile. On the manual, it says that we should not turn too strong as possible.

Vella, transparent and sensitive. Look no. The pocket watch is me.

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separate living and dead

"How do you do to cope? "You asked me this once. At first, I did not know what to say - indeed I was not even aware that I could take, I was there, that's all. At first I thought I had just managed to be a little more courageous. But ultimately it was not a question of bravery, when I think. I let myself be walked on, I'm lying on the floor of the bathroom, quintals of tissues in each fist, and I let time pass. I looked without seeing the tiny grains of sand falling over each other in the hourglass. I saw that I was getting older when the leaves began to redden and the trees were bare. In my room it smelled of sugar. My whole house smelled of sugar. Even today it m'abrutit, it intoxicates me. But I know now what I did to cope. I thought all these little things, all these little nothings . So small before they slipped to avoid being seen, not felt. Surprise a beautiful boy who surreptitiously watching you, drink hot chocolate with friends, or hot tea while reading a good book to roll in the grass, eat something too fatty or too spicy, but having tasted, have felt all the aromas and secrets, read a beautiful love letter (and even non -love); cry in front of a turnip U.S.; cry in front of an onion being peeled, crying tears of joy taste water sea, leaving the hairdresser with a large smile and open a big beautiful wrapping the day of his birthday, give up everything and do it properly tear (and blow out the candles too, it feels good) to pass a line of eyeliner impeccable go to the cellar for some wine and stay white little longer to feel the clean laundry that comes out of the machine; afford a new bag and want them because the closet is already overflowing, buy vinyl and attend the ceremony of turntables, the thirty dance-three towers squeezed tight against the diamond whistling response (hello doll, you sing well) make love to a boy who smells like hot sand, as in the song, watch his sisters and be happy to realize that they like, loving someone, hate someone and love it.

And feel loved, supported, like you worry, there. I like your head when you're sad, it's human?

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They had met at a jazz concerto, in the suburbs St. Louis. They still had music to the ears, it could not end so abruptly. Then they went home, it was just next door. They listened to the vinyls Chloe sipping cognac.

He wanted, she wanted too. He was alone, she was not pretty.

And then when Charlie woke up, he began a long time to realize he was not home, but in a strange bed, smelling of lavender and a brass saxophone. He turned to Chloe. She had a completely different face to the light, which pierced the shutters lazily. His hair was blond brassy and framed an oval face, perfect. His lips stretched into a very rosy smile frozen and shaken by sleep. His eyelids were moving translucent fringe of his eyelashes. Charlie could tell he was hiding two globes curious, green bottle. From his temple to his chin digging the mark of the pillow. Adorable.

It was perhaps not so trivial after all.

Quietly, he raised himself on his elbow and threw a glance at the bedside. Under the lamp Rococo lay a copy of One Hundred Years of loneliness. The salon was

full of old books smelled of dust and surrounded by photographs of small wooden frames. Pieces of life.

Finally, he longed to know, that Chloe. He had planned to slip away, without leaving his number, as usual. But a girl named Chloe, like the song Ellington, how can it be like all the others, eh?

So good. Everyone can make mistakes. At night, all cats are gray. I guess the girls too.