I tend, when I open a book, always wanting to start with the last sentence. She often learns nothing about the story itself, and does not spoil any surprises. Then I read the first, and try to reconcile the two.
Because deep down, I am one of those that the path is immaterial. What interests me is always how things end. For me it's all in the first and last sentence, and I often convince myself that the rest is just filler. I should write shorter stories.
The beginning is long gone, and I have no idea how things will end. In an unexpected manner, or completely logical, or both. In any case I prefer to equip myself with a good gun.
I tell Lucien that the charger from the Kalashnikov is slightly damaged, and suddenly it's hard to fit.
-Try now be drawn without you remove the shoulder, he replied a little dark. The rest is detail.
He's right. The end of history will probably not depend on a feeder that hangs a little. All this belongs to the path.
I load the gun a little by forcing it, and move on. For the form, I wonder who it belongs. When he said, "a cousin" I fail to explode. "But you
quintuplets chain, in your fucking family?
-Attention threatens me there. You speak of my family.
I sigh, muttering that he is unable to admit to me that as a scheming bastard. He mumbles something that I do know that "big family", avoiding cross my eyes. For a while, I swear he's going to cry.
-I have a new movie idea, "he stammered.
Me too.
"It is the story of a negotiator. He must think of the terrorists who have taken a bank hostage. Except that his wife is inside and that it obscures his trial. So he gets mad not evil. It is a powerful role.
And how it ends?
-I do not know yet.
We leave home to go and carry the latest bags in the trunk of the car. I try to hide the Kalashnikov under an old cloth. In the world of novels, this kind of transition would indicate a violent end is coming. But I'm not really sure.
I do not speak to Lucien the idea that I've had. In this film, which begins "They come to kill you" and ends with "I can not relativize. He did anyway not seem in the mood to listen. I realize that I am sentence, and he would have liked to train a little longer in his madness.
It's like a farewell before leaving for war. He remarked that I took more fuel than I need, like a motherfucker. I would recommend putting more people in his films.
"You know how much it costs a bullet, my chicken? wonder there.
I got into a car and drives off. He waves his hand for an eternity, until I no longer noticing in my rearview mirror. As for going on vacation. I am walking
Marseille without nostalgia. The city is on my way, and basically it will not had much influence on the course of things. But I know she will always be there if I need it, and somehow it comforts me. Roger
I rush back in the neighborhood of Point Red, because I'm sure that's where it should be. He will probably find the name of the place "appropriate."
I gave up trying to unravel the secrets of this whole logic of appearances of my friend's future. We begin to know, if not appreciate us, and now it's as if I just let myself be carried along by this mechanics obscure to anticipate certain events. Maybe that's how it works in the future.
I arrive in this area which has an air of false postcard, and Roger discovers that awaits me without luggage on board the main road. I stop at its height, and asked him to ride. By moving the passenger seat, he asked me why I wear my winter coat, and if I do not die of heat with it.
-I 'I need, I say. You can not understand.
And since when you know how to drive?
"You honestly believe that in these days we'll ask for my license?
He scowls a bit. Without needing to open their mouths, I feel that this turn of events it dislike. It was probably used to having to leave me kicking ass for me to move a little, and now he feels left behind.
-Basically everything goes well, he grumbles.
-A except that no music for the trip. Just the radio.
And as radios emit more.
And I am a pathetic singer.
I did not encounter a car since I started driving, and pedestrians are rare at this time of day. I also want to give a little boost, and Roger advised me not to be too confident either in my driving.
-It is not like a scooter driver, he derides.
"You want to drive, you?
Why not.
-It is not like a jetpack pilot either. Sorry. This time he sulks
completely. I told him that I have a little errand to do before taking the highway and climbed the hill to the Basilica of the Guard. I park the car on a deserted car park and will stretch my legs a bit while waiting for the fateful rendezvous.
I can not say if the end is near, but I'm beginning to understand the trick of the road. Life is filling, and deep down I'm not a bad writer if I can predict certain things.
The wind sent shudders through the grass around me, and hunting birds in the trees. Even this season, the basilica is bathed in a cool contrast with the rest of the city. I do not climb the stairs to the building. I assume that since God has tried to kill me, I'm scared places of worship. So I give
kicked in the stones, I watch Marseille stretching really far. I filled a few minutes of my life with little things that bring me closer to a little over the outcome. Martine
tumbling into my field of vision, without giving me notice. She walks on the grass, trying, as if it were possible, to protect her hair from the wind. And when she sees me, I remember that everything is always in the first and last sentence.
"Come with me," I said.
The wind covers my words, and she asks me to repeat what I abstain because I'm not quite sure of my shot.
-How do you do to find me? she asked a little irritated.
-You 're in my way. Everywhere.
is not easy to finish something. Not to spend time describing and stir some more. I hesitate to return the car to look for the gun.
Martine said she expected me a lot. I want to tell him that it's really not the time. There are some mechanics that are impossible to understand. I told him that I return to Paris without really knowing how it can react.
"But damn, she gets angry, frankly, we're still going to spend our lives to expect! You can continue to do anything here, you do not need to return there.
-I will not do anything there. Really.
"You know nothing else to do. You make shit.
His eyes fill with tears, and she turns her head. I am looking for the last sentence, without arriving to find it. We can not say I am a prolific writer. Febrile enough, it moves away from me and began to climb the stairs to the basilica, where she knows I can not follow it. I
yells "fuck you" and she turns to throw me a look calm and sad, makes me feel like a little boy. I walk calmly to the car, and hesitated until the last moment to grab the Kalashnikov to attack this damn church.
I sit behind the wheel and starts. Roger is always mouth, watching the road and scroll through the window. The hill is easier to descend than climb, and I am quickly toward the highway.
This is not the end. I know because "fuck you" is anything but a last sentence. That probably explains why I am so sad I should be.
I cross a moving car in reverse and the driver returns my gaze astounded me. Doubtless he did not usually cross the world either. I agree on the freeway and Roger finally starts to relax. He asked me if I have other appointments, and if I really expected anything would happen. "I'm not
medium, asshole. It's just that there are people more predictable than others. Besides, we will make a detour to the Swiss border to retrieve the road Joell. It must be stuck in France.
-Tu me rotten life.
He crosses his arms and sings a song unknown, not having to talk to me. Yet he is wrong: I can not foresee everything, and I'm even more curious than he how all this will end.
A long military convoy passes us in the opposite direction. This is probably why the driver crossed that I stared. Perhaps that Marseille will lose his cool after all.
I watch the trucks loaded with soldiers until they disappear from my rearview mirror and asked Roger what I call the "real future". The real-
future away, "he replied tersely.
Note: Do not move away
Soon: Irving dragon
0 comments:
Post a Comment