Push your wheelbarrow asshole. Put one foot before the other, not cumbered and not thinking about you or your place in the world. The road is still long until Ragnar four kingdoms, and even more to Valhalla.
I tell anything. Each day will be gold, but for now every day I am a little frosty. I'm barely aware of what I do.
Irving Rutherford is telling me eat, I know. Even at a distance, it drains my life force, and with my reason. I am less and less consistent in the stories I tell. Occasionally, a flash of lucidity makes me say that I imagined the death of Xavier, because psychology magazines never killed anyone.
-You who had already struggled to make you to death Roger, sympathizes Vincent.
-Roger is not dead, "I said, irritated. He returned in time, I've already said.
Vincent shakes his head wearily, and I see tears despite pointing to the corners of his eyes when he put them on me. He turns his head to avoid having to contemplate longer the show I left off.
I cast off long ago. I waited just a flurry takes me away.
shoot your barrow your barrow pushing, pushing your wheelbarrow. The Road to Valhalla is short, and after waiting fame, women, and alcohol drinking craft in the skull of your enemy. Irving Rutherford will burst open mouth and you can shit in it.
Suddenly, a pulsating heart in me to stop walking. My vision is troubled by flies obscure, and I feel assaulted by the rain tumbles and the certainty that I will never be a better man.
Vincent catches me by the shoulders to keep from falling. He wondered aloud how he came to escort the bearer of the ring. I am sitting on the roadside in the grass wet and cold. A drizzle
continual attacks us since we abandoned the car, which fell short of gasoline. It is insidious and persistent, and seeks to prove to us that summer is well and truly over.
To make matters worse, Vincent passed on me the heaviest bag. When I proposed to leave our belongings in the car, he said nothing, but I stuffed this big duffel bag in his hands. Lately, every word I utter a word that is one step closer when he will knock me and throw me into a ditch, to surrender to the rain diffuse drown myself quietly.
In the words of mustachioed, Paris is just a good day's walk. I pray every second to arrive in time for Ragnarok.
I get up, and we continue our journey. Vincent takes the lead, and for a good time does not even turn towards me. I'm so hardened that I like walking in puddles at every step. And the sound of my wet sneakers seem even more irritating to my friend, I see the shoulders stiffen progressively.
In the distance I hear the cries of Irving. He speaks of the future evil that is being put in place, and questions my existence to me. I still find that's strange for a evil twin. When I retorted "You're the evil twin", I scream that I'll feed the rats, which startled Vincent.
He turns to me with rage and sadness, probably furious that Xavier is gone away and not me.
-You 're a fucking frosty! I shouted it.
-I do what I can.
-I 'm tired of you household.
Me I'll spare the mouth, you'll see.
He steps toward me, fists clenched, and then stops. If we do not fight here and now, I do not care much about our friendship. This is a crucial moment that we live, but my friend does not seem to realize that. It
advance towards me, and just put his face inches away from mine. The muscles of his jaw are restless bouncing and I almost expect to see smoke coming out of his ears. I realize that now, with the training I received from Xavier, I could probably send the mustache to the mat.
Rain forces us to blink constantly. I hurt everywhere even before the fight is started. The hardest thing is not shivering in my wet clothes, and do not consider this friendship fled.
Vincent closes his eyes and shrugs. A ghost ninja hovers above us, and will not leave easily. The grief of mourning we gnaws worse than rain or anger.
you adjust it later, "he sighs.
And he resumed his way to the top of our little procession. It is as if the road was called, walks like a romantic hero. There is still time for me to catch him and beat him up, to save what is left to save.
I'm back on the road. We cross the winding country and gray, an unparalleled monotony. After several hours we passed a man going by bike in reverse, and Vincent took the opportunity to extract a cigarette.
Then we enter the highway, empty and slippery, and the reflection that returns me the asphalt is wet again that Irving Rutherford. Many times we meet then contraflow people to bike or walk. Vincent even managed to negotiate a bit of bread against a pair of shoelaces.
We sit on the ramp for a picnic break. The bread is soft from having dragged the rain. Before our eyes, the number of bystanders fleeing the capital increases visibly.
-Are you surprised? wonder Vincent.
I will check with an old woman, who simply say "This is serious shit out there." That's enough for me. I'll pass the information to Vincent, who calmly nods of the head before taking off slowly on the road.
I'm a little less sure of myself with each stride. The asphalt is slippery and I go on, and missing several times. Actually I do not even know why I return to Paris.
I wrote a novel, created an evil twin, stopped writing. Now I must stop having an evil twin. One of my friends died, the other is no longer my friend. I live in a fantasy world, and now after I'm out of inspiration. The
France scares me sometimes. I feel like I never get to consider it in its entirety. But in the end I'm like everyone else, and although I still desire all fart. Although I have no idea what may happen next.
The real future is dead, finished. He went with Roger in a deluge of electricity. I would like to include more than one day in advance, but there are too many variables and I'm not smart enough.
I wrote my last novel, he talks about this a bit silly knight who drove into the pile without any strategy. When all this is over, and that I am rid of Irving Rutherford (and I have saved my country at the same time), I will try to read it, and I'm sure it gives me confidence in myself.
What am I?
I am one of the great army of losers, with my scars, my degree (unofficial) from writer-warrior, my lack of ambition and dirty way that I always miss everything that I are doing. Little by little things are improving. One day we will win, and that's why maybe I go back to Paris.
I snap my fingers that the rain stops. Vincent will surely say it is a coincidence. I savor a few seconds the return of the sun on my face, without paying attention to people around us who spend tens. The mustachioed
shoulder shakes me to make me react. I pointed to the capital on the horizon, burning and exploding. Several aircraft took turns flying over, dropping their bombs in the process. The city is still far, and no sound reaches us. It's like a fireworks inaccessible, too distant to provoke a real emotion. I can just see the queue of refugees grows in seconds.
is already Ragnarök.
-We will die, informs me Vincent.
Note: References to mythology too supported
Soon: Martine at the wrong time
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