Forget ThisForget you ever saw me. Don’t bother remembering anything about me. They’re not looking for me. You can call the police; you can give a description of my crimes and my appearance. Officially, they don‘t know me. They never have, they never will. Hey, don’t be afraid, kid. It’s only metal, only noise. It’s nothing without someone to make it work. You can cry all you want. “He had a gun! He had a gun!” I can hear your voice whimpering right now, your chest heaving as your teaForget This
Black Bowler Hat“Why don’t you give them any money, Mom?”Black Bowler Hat
My mother glanced up from her food, her vague glance appearing sluggish through the Barcelona heat. Her eyes quickly slipped away from my face
as if its surface was soapy, her eyes unwilling to grip its contours
for any length of time.
“I never give street performers money.”
“Why?”
Her voice became sour on the edges. “Because I don’t, now let it be.”
I let it be.
The next time an overturned black bowler hat came waltzing round our table, (to
Devious Journal Entry
--
Tom can't play the harmonica.
"I think that is my life story. Wrapped nicely in a broken stone plate with no real significance and nothing more than an exercise in imagination and craft. Nothing more."
- 'zerocomplex
--
"Tact is for people not witty enough to be sarcastic."
Previous Page123Next Page