tragicoptimist

the phone rings : she someone screams, crying. leon took the call trying to understand the sounds sputtering from the other side. he tapped his head and turned, what the fuck is going on, what’s wrong ? sarah was leaning on the front of the truck, half-emptied brandy bottle in hand. the bar had closed forty some minutes ago but they were still there, wasting outside under the dim stoplight intermittently flashing yellow. » Read more «

rubber to the road, roaring rage : burning. shelby gt and he jet setting arizona afternoon sunbaked desert setting, black and blasting fast. busting past, empty space. dense air, hot and sand. salt white blurring visions blinding, grey strip scissions sections right and left : Lee racing leftlane lest he die. test drive.

he hand heel holding the wheel, right between bottle and gear. whiskey wet his lips, cigarette breath. chuck the butt, had enough : eight years of endless effort, crosscountry constant concrete slabbing. fatigue facing, work waking fifteen hour days exerting. building bridges, making gaps : pissing from pittsburgh to portland, constructing the world. tens of tons a son of steel and stone, unshaven. alone. » Read more «

The gruntled customs officer, intently hunched over some anonymous forms, turned upwards towards the new arrival giving him a sharp, severe look. As if disturbed by the inconvenience of having to do what he was presumably stationed there to do, the united states civil servant demanded in his deep, authoritative voice,
« Passport. »
Slowly, with a sort of calculated calm and a deliberate nonchalance Francesco slowly lowered the black duffle bag from his right hand gently placing it on the ground next to him and, straightening himself to look the man surrounded by his plexiglass cubicle directly in the eye, pulled his passport from the inside pocket of his black wool coat.
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