Only when the car almost slammed stop had I realize I'd been driving way too fast. Caressing my fresh wound from hitting the front window, I sheepishly glance at him. Seemingly unhurt, he was looking outside as if the shock didn't affect him at all. I was planning to call him but his name got stuck somewhere in my throat. Giving up, I unbuckle my seat belt and cracked the door open. It was blazingly sunny. By instinct, I dug my hand in my pocket. One cigarette left. I lit it and slowly stroll down the heated asphalt. Soon, his shadows reached mine. "Lock it." He simply ordered and soon the car bipped behind us. It't not like me to follow his orders, never was the obedient type, even to an older guy like him. Especially to him. But today. Today was different.
rhythmically, the tap dripped and the sewing machine whirred as he clinked on the edge of the glass while stirring the liquid.like clockwork, he heard a nervous tapping on the green arched door.cool air rushed into the room causing the chain on his pocket watch to swing gently.
sliding down her hood, she revealed to him her long tendrils of golden curls which were arranged perfectly to frame her angelic face. exchanging a small smile, he stepped aside, inviting her inside.
watching intently, she noticed how the grooves that had been dug into his forehead over the years resembled crop rows.his worn hand reached out for hers and the warmth of his palm settled the cold of her fingers and together, they found balance
Why is there a writer's fixation about the sea? I'm probably not a real writer then. Because all the great ones had this obsession about that dark blue giant pool (or, sometimes, about the skies - made of the same blue). I prefer to write about a guy taking a shit, staring at his toenails - that need to be cut.
Ugh, the sea. Is it because of the vast emptiness of a never-ending blue? Does that reflect the inside of a true writer? A sight the goes way deep into nothingness. Yeah, I can see why it appeals. But, still, it does not inspires me. I might as well continue to write about dirty toilets.
The Barbershop runs at night. Each costumer has it's own story to share. All the chairs are covered with a black leather.
The barber hears each story like we read a book. In every phrase is sort of magic, that keeps the whole barbershop warm and bright.
Everything gains life as the words come out their mouths and the scissors clings and cuts and the beards get trimmed.
As the barbershop closes, the stories remain.
Do you want me to draw you a picture? Capitalism is dying, and my body is not as resilient as it used to be. I ate a french-fry, now I'm cramming leafy greens into my face-hole, chewing 'til my cheeks ache. Capitalism is dying, everything is fake. anarchy is rising, money is on fire. People are exchanging products on the web. The internet is pistol-whipping citizens, who are handing over their wallets and jewels. My spirit is not as resilient as it used to be. I'm pointing my ear-hole towards the poverty-ambassadors. I'm giving fresh clean socks to every legitimate panhandler I can find.