"You know, I think I'll stop writing that novel I started. It is not really good, and it takes me far too long. I think I want to try painting, too, maybe travel a bit.
I would do anything but lazing in front of my computer until we have something to tell which is interesting. I'm tired of spending hours without finding anything, and when the ideas come from constantly pushing the time to write down for fear that they become bad if I said evil.
stories knight n'intéressent not many people, myself and I'm starting to get bored. I feel like I spend all my time pulling each line of text in my head, because basically I did not feel like writing. I'm starting to admit that I'd be better to do nothing.
I'm better. I breathe normally now, and I will not have consequences apart from a messed up tattoo. I wish you were there all the time. I'm less stupid when you're there. "
I fold the letter to Martin and put it in my pocket. I wonder for a moment if I'm not too much, and if she will not worry. But I could not decently say that I write less now that my friends and I have recovered a television.
Xavier beckoned me to the sofa as the Dutch soap opera incomprehensible that we love will soon begin. I hesitate a moment to join, but after a look through the window, I notice that the sun is already low in the sky.
And I begin to understand that he is not good to walk at night now. I put on a jacket, surprised by my own stupidity. The heat in recent days reached the height of wickedness and the night offers a respite frontage.
Vincent is even more stupid me. He picks a thick hooded sweatshirt on a chair back, and dons a velvet jacket over it. When I asked him if he is sick, he replied that unlike me he prefers to keep a certain style.
He lights a cigarette and hands me one, I refuse. My lungs are still painful, and smoking has become a torture for me. Seeing my jacket, I asked about my destination, which turns out to be close to his.
-Where are you going? I ask.
-replenishment. You'll help me carry stuff.
I feel it an honor that makes me to show me his world. What demystifying the source of all the food they bring in, it shows me more confidence than ever. But in reality he must certainly have heavy stuff to bring.
I propose to Xavier to accompany us, to stretch their legs. He refused, shaking his head imperceptibly, suspended from the lips of a Dutch actor who begins a monologue with tears in his eyes.
"I think he just lost everything," he said.
Vincent and I go out of the apartment, and Xavier we bring howls of aromatic plants to decorate the pounds of pasta, which form the basis of our diet. Once on the streets, deprived of the freshness of the building, mustachioed pauses for a few seconds as a decompression. Then he takes me through the capital, to a destination known only to himself.
We walk to a neighborhood near the eccentric Martine. Vincent seems alert and scan the few people we meet with suspicion. When a young person comes to ask for cigarettes, I feel like he is about to hit him.
-People will think you all, Vincent grumbled one time he chased the intruder. It takes me
to the foot of a building, and insists that I do not mean once we get deeper inside. He explained that what will follow for the grownups.
So why is you who worry loads?
-Shut up.
We climb the stairs, and come across many men who go down precipitously, all armed, carrying boxes or sports bags. I can see the light of Vincent that is unusual even for him. Reached the last stage, the moustached knocks on a door, and I can hear expletives uttered on the other side. A man comes we open, bright-eyed and panicked, an empty bag in his hands. Recognizing
Vincent, his face relaxed a little, and it beckons us to enter. Immediately start filling his bag with everything he finds to hand cans, toilet paper, boxes of ammunition ...
"It is not the time, he shouted to the address of Vincent.
One of the men we saw off raided the apartment, certainly catches two jerry cans filled with petrol and back down the stairs. The room is littered with various objects, and I would not be able to know myself what to pack first. The grocer
Vincent tries to clarify the situation while his luggage, but his words are unintelligible. His hands trembled so that he drops an object on both.
"They go to the next level, he whines. I think they are really tired.
Vincent asked him to calm down, to no avail. Another man comes to collect the freshly filled bag and announced that it is the last trip because the clock is ticking and it becomes just too risky to stay here.
As if to confirm his assertions, deafening sounds outside. A noise that reminds me of a rocket explosion that I attended, but more grandiose. I feel that the ground shakes for a few seconds. Vincent and the man rushed to the window, while I remain rooted to the spot, unable to move, feeling every vibration in the air and waiting to see where they lead me.
Not that I understand why, Vincent asks his sidekick if the neighborhood is home to a nest of revolutionists. The man shook his head gravely.
"What do you think? he retorted. Here is the only place where you can live well. It supports them, it's our way of changing things. The mustachioed
screaming "Holy shit," and grabs me by the arm to drag me down the stairs. I descend the stairs four at guided by the instinct of survival, in ignorance of the danger which threatens me.
I hear a second detonation insane out, closer this time. She is so strong that it covers the nervous bellowing curses the grocer behind us. Vincent cried too, but I think these are orders for our survival. I want to ask him what he actually proposes to share scampering for cover.
We emerge into the street and see a crowd in the grip of madness. Two adjoining properties were already demolished, and a plane passes overhead at a speed unimaginable to go drop a third bomb a little later, who shattered several buildings.
Some people take with revolver shots in the direction of the plane, thinking really down, or trying to evacuate their rage and frustration. People are hundreds in the street, something I have not seen for months. In fact, I even thought that everyone had deserted Paris.
men armed with submachine guns, nearly all bearded and shaggy, urging people to evacuate the area quickly. Easy to say. As if to mock us who have so frightened, two more planes bombard the buildings around us, raining down a barrage of bricks on the crowd.
Vincent receives a small rubble which opens the front. His grocer was not so lucky, taking full whipping a pile of bricks cemented it crushes the skull before our eyes. My chest burns me, and I feel that I'll tear my stitches simply by breathing.
Around us, everything is screaming and crying. Dazed, I try not to see dead bodies around me, among whom are many children. My ears whistle so I hear the new bomb as if it exploded in the water. This time, it destroys the building where Vincent and I were there a few minutes.
I do not know if things will change someday. It is more likely, but nothing ever happens. It is the army of losers they fight with nunchaku against tanks. It survives in the hope of at least those who scratch screw up our lives.
Vincent and I yell things that we do not understand neither the one nor the other. He ended by pointing one direction with his finger, and we follow the current, exceeding other fugitives. We continue to run well after leaving the bombed-out neighborhood.
When we stop to catch our breath, I notice that my wound bleeds again. I convince Vincent to let me look at the gash on his forehead, and he reluctantly lets himself go.
"I have nothing," he seethes. It's full of dead there.
"I've seen guys shoot with their phones. It's going to be on TV, everywhere. We will send us help.
He said nothing but stared at me as if I was from another planet. We go back without saying a word, and yet I feel that it is the shortest path of my life.
Once inside the apartment, I discovered Xavier asleep on the couch, watching TV, which broadcasts the stock market in Portuguese. I realize that it is now dark, and I try to guess how many hours have elapsed since our departure. Vincent drops into a chair, and the noise wakes Xavier. I would request the remote, he refuses to give me.
-You are hiding in the ass farted? he asks. You put for ages. Zappe
-on news channels. Immediately.
The determined look that I just start to convince him, probably because he just woke up. He switches to a British channel, where we find a presenter who speaks kindly air of any upcoming summit of heads of state. Vincent did not even deign to lay eyes on the job.
Xavier continues with the English newspaper, which portrays a football player. Vincent got up from his chair, and goes to his room with a shuffled. Xavier's wondering eyes but I do not pick a TV.
The Belgian paper reviews the headlines, and lingers a bit on the upcoming elections. The highlight of the German news is the birth of a baby panda.
I need help.
Note: Describe more
Soon: Irving is different
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