Ah yes, the biographer of Dad. The finger
weighing Karl scrolls chains, all silent.
Yes yes, I exaggerated a bit your natural melancholy, little sister. But if you were far more suicide, was a period.
No? So I
greatly exaggerated.
Do not blame me. I tell stupid things so often. It does not make you miss crumble.
No risk, Mina whistles under concentrated.
Look, the clip of REM. All these symbols of something really gay, right? Finally I read a lot of queers, amazing what they produce elsewhere, and they have a taste for metaphor. Representation, they like. Almost as much as rappers.
A new theory, Karl?
No, fatigue. This job makes me despair. There is enthusiasm to gun down hopes the fainthearted, but it is mostly the exhaustion of industrial reading. I am the first line of the publication, and I'm fragmented. You do not know the frightening number of small piston crossing my moat. So I take my revenge on others.
They work per cycle. Sometimes it is women who talk about sex. The first was published and there are thousands of small miserable vocations that arise. Right now is the qualifier. What genius convinced them that this was the sign of greatness? No idea but the reality is there, plus a guy across the street that is elegant, fragile, paunchy (paunchy, little sister!), Serene or dressed. And the street, quiet, dark or deserted? And gait, soft or subdued? Ah, there he is already on the opposite sidewalk, provided it is narrow or littered with rubbish.
is literature, right? The crumble is ready soon.
And if this is not literature? I decided after all.
literature is that man is potbellied. If that's life, it's a man crossing the street. If that film is the man who pretends to cross a street pretending to be the street that runs through the man. If it's music, it is the eighth to make his steps. But it is literature that the paunchy man crosses the crowded street.
...
You are completely dumb, Mina. Fortunately, I am there to protect honest people the existence of the pot-bellied man. And his feline approach that leads to the sidewalk orange.
By what right?
Seriously?
Seriously.
Because it's my function in society. Because I have written a masterpiece that gives me the right to judge what the literature.
You have never written a masterpiece.
's your opinion. But Dad loved it, and this time it was literature itself.
He simply said it was surprising. Surprising from a midget. A midget
austere. But he published. And I won all prices. Two
price.
They can not all save the same. It's bad for the industry. Okay
crumble.
Why did you tell her that I had committed suicide?
Attempt to commit suicide. To this girl? I know. I'm bored and I had little to say about Dad. I like talking to you.
Karl.
I talk about you. That's true.
Karl.
To verify it. She did not speak before you can be sure that this story is true. If you want answers, we must first know everything.
Next?
Soon she will want to see. The hat
Ronan oscillates, driven by the movement of the hammock.
And all will end.
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