A bullet slides through his skull, fired from point blank range and tipped with teflon. The proverb is broken like ill spoken words from behind a trembling barrel. The loss of an execution in a kung-fu movie.
– I don’t believe in the gun, I hold faith in a man who can wield a sword comfortably, regardless of whether he can use it.
He slides through the crowd, he steers and accelerates, brakes and leans. The girl attached to his side moves in symphony, but her serenity belies that he is the power to her sidecar. He turns occasionally to that side, in moments of losing his cool, smiles broadly at her before smugly turning back to the street scene.
A face flashes through the crowd as if it were shape-shifting and morphing. The memory as short as the moment. The old man turns sharply and, as if looking into a mirror and finding he is someone else, finds a person with whom he is acquainted. Antiquated because his body was well crafted, clear in his communication as if you would understand him regardless of the words he used. Emotionally intellectual.
– Every time I see you, you seem to be eating into your spare capacity, the friend beams leaning into a welcome hug, slapping and receiving warmly.
Their left hands resting on each others necks and the rights seemingly still united.
villemél 