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How an angel ...


Editions Family Jewels presents ...
... HOW AN ANGEL TO WING BEVELS COULD SAVE THE WORLD IF HE HAD NOT SPENT HIS TIME AT THE CLOUDS ... SNIFFER
a book by Jo Hunt Nathaniel

Gabriel is an angel of Fame Class 3, a little bureaucrat who excels in his work with the God Incorporation. At the head of a thank you service authoritarian Gabriel bored to death in this artificial paradise completely sanitized. Only problem: he is already dead. All could light up the day he meets the perfect woman, which is not impervious to its charm. But there is still a problem: the only thing that is not entirely wrong about angels, although they have no sex. Under the constant threat of Angels telepaths who stalk impure thoughts, Gabriel will stick against his halo in a vicious circle. And during that time on Earth ...


The Press (already), evidence:

"The good news is that this first novel is also probably the last"
Benedict

"I got a good laugh"
God

"The Future of Literature French "Clipper Magazine


----

Subscription form available here in Jpeg (or request PDF leseditionsbijouxdefamille@orange.fr). Book available at a price of 8 euros, 3 euros for shipping if necessary (if you do not come this evening and if you also stubbornly refuse to meet the author of this crap that might yet save you the money by delivering it by hand on Bordeaux, where you want when you want - the beers are for you). It will then perhaps be available to the bad reputation and Total Heaven if the author finds time to go see a Urbs and Martial point, which is not having won his schedule loaded ultra (the media is the tear).

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God smokes cigarettes

You'll probably have some difficulty in believing me, and I do not want you not being a tad skeptical on the issue, but we have every reason to believe that contrary to what we said Gainsbourg, God is a smoker of cigarettes.

Besides, if one believes the most eminent theologians, he never told his apostles "eat, this is my body," but "smoking is good." God is even a very heavy smoker, who cheerfully donned his two packs a day ... and it is much more common, believe it or not, to see God smoking like a chimney to see a fireman smoke like a God (except in dreams erotic-comedy the most salacious of Astrid Schuman, but it is a another story). The days of heavy clouds, it is not totally obscure to think that God has just hit a water pipe with Saint Peter, who never fails Nor him an opportunity to move away a smoke in the toilet rather than keeping the doors of Paradise, where there is theoretically no smoking since the entry into force of the Evin law. God cares, it's like Judge Dredd, the law, it's him. And God continues to smoke despite all his forty fags everyday for fear of his lungs. God cares about that too, and you know why: cancer, it is cons.

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Spanish Dictionary impromptu: Jean-Paul Sartre

Jean-Paul Sartre
April 15, 1980

Born in Paris in 1905, Jean-Paul Sartre lost his sire in 1906. Brought together by a Catholic mother and Protestant grandfather, the young man finds himself at the outset of the conflict at the center of assholes, and will retain a lifelong taste for protest, opposition and debate style of ideas ... deal with theories that are disturbing, this writer never combative can bring himself to wash their hands, they were dirty.

Student at Lycée de la Rochelle, Jean-Paul Sartre joined ENA in 1924, meets Simone de Beauvoir in 1925, comes into Simone de Beauvoir in 1926 and spent the aggregation in philosophy in 1929 to try to understand the reasons which have pushed into this corner. After his military service, he became professor of philosophy at Le Havre, from Berlin to study Heidegger while reading a lot of American novelists and cheap thrillers, then returned to Le Havre in 1934 to write "The Transcendence of the Ego" and " Outline of a theory of emotions, "closer to German existentialism as CSI: Miami.

Jean-Paul Sartre then tested mescaline, probably to forget Simone and in 1936 wrote the brilliant Melancholia, refused by Gallimard before being released in 1938 under another name, "Nausea," like what, mescaline does not to forget that beam inadvertently novelist frigid also a sexy doorway. Sartre also wrote "The Wall" a year later, then a whole bunch of parts as crucial as "The Flies" or "Huis Clos", without forgetting his novels "The Edge of Reason" and "Stay."

is 1945, Jean-Paul Sartre left teaching, founded the magazine "Modern Times" and joined the Communist Party before creating the Revolutionary Democratic Movement, with which he takes a big gadin. This will not prevent Jean-Paul Sartre to be all the fighting and all wars, rising against the Indochina and cons that of Algeria, yell at each other to form with Albert Camus in 1952, publishing in 1960 his Critique of Dialectical Reason "after a trip to Cuba rich in counts of the cigar (that the exchange of Beauvoir) and refusing in 1964 Nobel Prize for Literature which he did not have much to fuck, preferring to publish "The words" the same year.

The 70 link, Jean-Paul Sartre suffered one after two attacks that leave him alive but almost blind, and must stop all work in progress. Suffering from uremia, he died April 15, 1980 in Paris of a pulmonary edema ... 50,000 people take to the streets to attend the funeral and pay their last tribute to one of the most famous French writers of all time, including this young man who will miss school for this, but will produce this beautifully written apology: "Forgive my absence but I was at the demonstration against the death of Sartre."

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Letters to My Future-Ex (39)

small globules or the Apocalypse

"It's restful, tragedy, because we know that there is no hope."
Jean Anouilh

Globule Little finished his day's work, tired, exhausted. He grins, stretching, and headed by dragging the top car park. Its all-terrain vehicle is where he left off, brand new. Small Globule settles driving carefully, checks his seatbelt, start the engine of a sudden gesture, starts and take the first street on the right, at random.

imperceptibly, he presses the accelerator just starting out in the ramp. Shit, it is his vein, congestion in the aorta, at night. He thought quickly. Sure. It's Saturday night. He will be forced to detour to avoid getting stuck as a beginner globule behind this steady stream of ideas and emotions of all kinds which converge towards the same point in total disorder.

Still, it's the plot, this unusual gathering. Especially where he sees people he does not usually cross the road very often, it is assigned 24 to 16 hours for the irrigation of the lower parts from the new law of 3 / 8. Here, there is a misconception. Further, an Idea to the Con. Once here in the same car as this reasoning to its logical irritated cockpit. Further down the road, he saw another Intuition trying to pass on the right lane a whole row of Instincts struggling to move their cars in this seething mass.

Hop, a deviation. Globule Little took the opportunity to take a tangent. He tumbles to all spree on a small vein bordering country self-artery. If he pushed a little further for the cause of all this? That decided, he presses the fungus, it will not take him much time. A detour by the brain, nerve connections wriggle in every direction as a result of the influx of information that are fighting like cats and dogs to be heard first by the big boss. Neurons were thought to run in all directions to sort between good and bad ideas, they fail to stem the tide as much difficulty flowing into the courtroom.

Above it, Globule Little sees the big boss. He looks anxious, staring. It must be said that it must focus on to send its soldiers across the fronts of the stress that spreads among its connections, even faster than the ideas fail center by Great Aorta. Globule Little realizes that they all seem overworked and are constantly looking at their watches anxiously. He casts a glance at the enormous internal biological clock that sits above the courtroom, and includes the cause of their sudden panic: it will soon be 16 hours they should have to take all debauch little rest.

Really, all that worries him. He has never seen so much excitement around here since the finale of the 1998 World Cup. He wants to have the heart net, but the boss does not seem too willing to take the time to explain, especially to him, a second-class Globule. Too bad, he will manage by itself. After all, it's elementary, you have to trace the flow in the opposite direction to find the problem at its source.

the other side of the highway, the ramp is completely clear. The ideas continue to march in the opposite direction on his left while he was on full speed, as fast as possible despite the coolness that slows its progression in tunnels. Suddenly, small globules brakes suddenly. He comes to understand amazement came from where all emotions and obsessions glimpsed on the road. A little nervous, he nervously on his car stereo zaps to the chest, but the main channel is blocked by interference monsters. To think they still have too much work up there to address this problem of internal communication non-priority. Never mind, it's not very far. It restarts prudently, accelerate a bit and turns gently into the heart by a defective vent.

It's dark in that corner. Its headlights illuminate more weakly committed to the road deep in the heart that vibrates miles cries. Suddenly he must brake squeal again in a cell after a tight turn. On the way there, an obstacle. An unknown form. It said nothing, but that in any case something does not look like one of his cousins blood cells, or a virus classic, certainly not those he has encountered during his internship at the militias red blood cell for the irrigation of forelimbs. But given the heat they emit, it is easy to imagine the fierce battle that must lead above the hordes of white blood cells against the evil face that lurks neuronal connections.

Cautiously, he approached on tiptoe protean mass almost totally obstructing access. It gently lifts the veil. Strange. It looks like a globule, but it has black hair on top of the skull, long white hands, a sharp eye and a mouth, what a mouth, what next, who seem to want to talk to him, twisted in an expression bittersweet a mixture of abstract sadness and joy, confidence and doubt, honesty and secrets, cold and heat, rebellion and resignation, attraction and repulsion. He hardly dares to come closer, as the form it looks beautiful and poisonous at a time.

Slowly, calculating every millimeter of movement, it tends fingers to touch the forehead form. His contact is the start.

It is there. This is not an illusion. It's here. Small Globule rejoiced and is alarmed at a time. He feels happy without knowing why, but his smile freezes, because he knows what it all means for him and all his fellows. He heard this legend many times when he was still mini-globule. What was her name already, this story his grandfather told him many times? Ah yes, that's it, that it deserves. He sees the title as if contemplating encoreles pages yellowed by time of the Great Book of Blood Cells, and this brown blanket which was part in large gold letters:

"The Apocalypse, or the legend of the woman in the skin."

Globule Little crying now, kneeling in front of this form seems to dominate his weight.

Globule Little crying, and he does not even know if it's joy or sorrow.

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God is a truck driver

It may of course seem very strange, and I it made me upset when I understood all that that implies, but it seems that in reality God is a truck driver Roger called.

And this is not because God is everywhere, he knows everything because he has a CB he used and abused every time he crosses a mobile radar. Do not honk when small chicks in a Renault 5 while being flashed his buddies coming in the opposite direction, God boredom doubling of English trucks to 87 km / h on the voice of history left to piss off all those idiots who swoop down on him at full speed. With a little bowl and when the road is wet enough, it can still lead to a small pile with ten dead key. It is a bad outbreak of cholera, but it's been a long time that God has left down the mass purges. When God is tired of killing people for fun, he will enter a good steak frites at the Buffalo Grill at the rest area Rougnoles Sur Gouffion. Then it will piss a bowl, a fun good ten minutes with the automatic hand dryer will take a nap in the weeds, thinking of all those puppets who come to pray in churches to heaven so that 'they would just take the A80 and exit at thirty terminals Rodez to fall over.

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impromptu Dictionary: Jesse Owens

James Cleveland Owens was born in 1913 in Oakville, a small town in Alabama where we may say, as Worldwide, there are a lot less racist than dirty lazy niggas only good for pushing the balls of cotton. This is also what makes his father, when not involved on Sunday at running races against his friends slaves. He will naturally give James the virus of the race, with that of AIDS and a dozen other venereal diseases that affect blacks fortunately, but that's another story.

We are in 1920 and the Owens family moved to Cleveland to offer a better future for their children, which is really cotton to the coup. It is that the teacher of James, who did not understand when he made his initial decision to rename Jesse for the good of all. This is also where Jesse Owens begins for Junior High School in Bolton while working as a delivery man and as a warehouseman in a shoe factory to finance his education. He won 79 races and 76 of the university in which it participates and equalizes the world speed record when he was 17 years. Naturally selected for the U.S. championships in 1935, he has broken all records despite a fall down the stairs a few days before, the record explodes in the 100 meters, 200 meter, 200 meter hurdles and long jump, becoming the first to cross the bar from eight meters.

The 1936 Olympics are held while in Berlin, and Jesse Owens goes one step further in the challenge by winning four gold medals in front of Chancellor Hitler, who refuse to come to congratulate him, probably a little upset and probably hurry to go play mid-gauze gauze me with Rosenthal and Cohen. It is true that on that day, Jesse Owen was inflicting quite a contradiction to the Aryan theories, even if it came at the same time strengthen the theory that verified many times is that if black people run faster, it is because of their drives to flee when the police arrived.

Back in the U.S., Jesse Owens was hailed as a hero, but a black hero all the same, always provided free of civil rights. It just vegetate, organizes shows in which he defeated in the race of champions that it leaves a bit early and even horses, and eventually became a jazz disc jockey in Chicago. There he died and was buried after being caught March 31, 1980 by lung cancer which makes the blow of the hare and the tortoise. Because that's the problem with cancer: nothing to run, we must die to the point.

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Letters to My Future-Ex (38)

Everywhere

"Let me make these valleys, these palaces, these cottages
Vains objects for me the charm is flown
rivers, cliffs, forests, deserts so dear One
be missing you, and everything is depopulated
Lamartine

You're in the first rays that pass through the window
In the folds of my pillow too have heard
In the memories of my night
who do not get in my shower looking at me, bewildered
In my coffee mug that impatience
bouillu Coffee, coffee damn, morale in the sock juice.

You're between the lines of my text out of context
Among the keys to experiencing squeaking
Between the pages of my book in frantically running round
Between each cigarette burned to flirt
Between each companion, anonymous As far
happen to my Achilles heel.

You're on the tip of my shoes when I hugged
feverishly on the back of my jacket that I put on while you slip away
On the crosswalk waiting for my solo crossing
On the bar counter which is fed
On the rim of my glass that I broke the foot
About to annoy me copiously.

You are under the pile of magazines that I painstakingly filled
Under the deck that runs the sad song that blocks
Under my collection of flyers that fly in the first stroke
On the boards they all burn with Under all the fervor
skirts girls who simper in vain before me
'I am drunk, drunk, steep, crazy. You are omnipresent


Omniscient Omnipotent

Omnibulante
You're everywhere You know all

You know all you can do all
You're all

You feel everything you touch any

You eat all you hear all

You see everything ....

Except me.

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Theory borked: God is Belgian

It will perhaps surprise you, and me I stayed back considerably by the news terrible, but it would seem, a careful reading of the Bible and Pif Gadget n ° 137 (one with a whoopee cushion as a gift) that God is actually Belgian.

Like Johnny Hallyday, if I can shortcut this gritty border of the unbearable, the only difference being that we know, God has never yet taken for Johnny Hallyday. And most importantly, when Johnny was immediately much more difficult to love his neighbor. Disc. God is not a Muslim, God is not Jewish, God is Belgian. Once. And even sometimes twice a day, if we are to believe the many stories of passionate love that cover the walls of sheer Flemish churches in which to dawdle between two beers at an outdoor cafe in Antwerp and cons everything. God is everywhere, and especially in Belgium, a country of cultural diversity and love the other, flat country that has plate that the nickname and geography as it is full of wonders that can not be decently as divine inspiration, starting with this ultimate element without which life would be nothing, no water, no, nor fire, air or land, but the fry. Gastronomy without fries is like a pepper steak or without a kiss without a mustache, it makes no sense, and that is why Belgium is, and that's why in a its moments of infinite wisdom, the Lord said, "that is fried, and Belgium was. All that to say that God is Belgian, and it fits like a Gent.

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impromptu Dictionary: Blum

Blum

Born April 9, 1872 in Paris, Leon Blum was sent to the Lycée Henri IV, where he met André Gide quickly, with whom he founded a journal of poetry ... hundred years later, he would have done with tuning Steevy and walls tagged with M Pokora, farewell and paid holidays. But we are in 1891. Blum gets one after his degree in Letters and his law degree, and is received as an auditor of the State Council when he was 23 years while writing some book reviews in journals Paris. The policy does it really falls over with the beginning of the Dreyfus affair in 1894, just before he met Jean Jaures, with whom he founded the newspaper L'Humanité in 1904.

In August 1914, Blum became Chief of Staff of the Socialist Marcel Sembat, a very good dancer, then became deputy for the Seine in 1919 and chairman of the Socialist parliamentary group the following year, at a time when the we still did not associate socialism with a left caviar led to an iron hand in a glove Mobalpa by the Virgin of Poitou; The following year, he refused to join the SFIO communists of the Third International and fucked in the legislative by the rise of the extreme right. So, in 1934, he approaches the PCF Thorez and sign agreements of the Popular Front, which allows them to win the general election of 1936 and sees Leon Blum became President of the Board, the equivalent of our current president . It's time all revolutions: Blum invites women in government, then they do not vote. And above all, paid holidays, work week to forty hours, compulsory schooling to 14 years, the institution of collective bargaining and the right last two football games a week.

But soon, everything is spoiled. Vilified by the extreme right and his entire government (Roger Salengro, his interior minister, will even commit suicide), and hit hard by anti-Semitism very fashionable at the time when the mustache was Führer Blum is picked up and resigned in 1937. Very quickly, it's war. Blum is one of the 80 MPs who voted against the granting of full powers to Marshal Petain, and refuses to flee the U.S. despite the invitation of Roosevelt. Order by Vichy in September 1940 he was interned at the castle of Chazeron then delivered by Pierre Laval to the Nazis and deported to Buchenwald in March 1943, in a charming forest cottage 100 yards from the camp, as everyone knows, so rampant these little details of history that in fact never really existed, let us agree. His brother René Blum, founder of the Ballet de l'Opera de Monte Carlo, it will end in soap at Auschwitz, while Blum was taken with his wife in the Italian Tyrol at the time the war is nearing its end. He runs for a month last provisional government of France, refused the post of Minister that he proposes and De Gaulle withdrew in 1947 at his home in Jouy-en-Josas (not to be confused with Enjoy by Josette Belgian pornographic film of 1948) and died March 30, 1950 of a heart attack at the age 77.

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Letters to My Future-Ex (37)

Castration Sentimental

You could be proud of me
You could introduce me to all your friends
You could be jealous of those who approached me
You could drag me tender looks
You could drag you under my skin
You could
We
could have been strolling hand in hand
We could show off in public
We could share smiles
We might love our silences
We could share our morning coffee
We could

I could be sweet attentive, tender
I could have been reassuring, firm, paternal
I could be funny, relaxed, fun
I could be cultivated, passionate, interesting
I could be a good gross a little gangster
J 'You could have

not left me time to become someone you do
left me time that of being nobody.

A 100-meter runner blocked on the line
After two false starts
A poker player with a Royal gives
Obliged to lie down for lack of participants
An actor who finally gets a role
And which are cut to mount replicas
A metaphor would have liked to grow and become something else


That frustration over
That castration absurd
That dead weight to be an alternative to sleep

That eternal regret.

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impromptu Dictionary: Lolo Ferrari

1963. All the Puy de Dome is in turmoil Martin Luther King just had a dream, JFK is stumbling, AC Milan are champions of Europe a millennium volcano wakes up with a small pschitt and Clermont-Ferrand suddenly becomes the center of the known world on February 9 when born in the charming countryside of Clinical Deep Throat, Early Eve Geneviève Aline Vallois. Originally

rather modest one that does not yet called Lolo Ferrari will live a relatively quiet childhood towards Gaul, forgiveness, La Baule, and is found to do some modeling, after early days of adolescence have revealed to the world the generous attributes which nature has endowed the little Eve. Indeed, at the age of 13, she lugs around his 90 D on sunny beaches and the Baule to pervert fucks triquent who drink on the terrace and jumped to the pretty girls who go on the pier in swaying slightly to avoid bites . Mooring. Among them, a certain Eric Vigne, paunchy Quarantine nicknamed "the vine" by his friends, who marries without shame and without the hood young Eve Vallois on a beautiful morning in July 1988. His mother is there, also breast, implants are not far away. Crazy admiration for Amanda Lear and encouraged by his poisonous vine, and Eve became Lolo chest swells to a staggering speed, reaching 180 cm happiness after 25 surgeries during which she took the opportunity to be redrawing the eyes, nose and lips to look up his childhood idol. With 2.8 pounds and three liters of serum into each breast, Lolo becomes "the woman with the biggest breasts in the world" for the Guinness Book. For the rest of the population, it will remain a monster carnival made to be drilled, a pig, a slut, and again, I kiss my words.

Equipped with its tailor-made brassieres and its chronic insomnia (she can not sleep on your stomach or back, and fear that her breasts explode suddenly makes him lose sleep), Lolo Ferrari in 1996 represents a caricature of Pamela Anderson in the movie Camping Cosmos, gets a recurring role on Channel 4's Eurotrash, makes striptease in cabarets moldy, tries to films erotic then right down the porn, she once again has the opportunity to do redo the facade with disconcerting regularity. Sony Music philanthropists the opportunity to save him the tube ephemeral "Airbag Generation", but it is already seeing the tree, others say the mold or the woods, for Lolo Ferrari and her husband fungus. And even if it won his lawsuit against the firm Ferrari's draft lingerie Lolo Ferrari Underwear falls into the water and Lolo permanently dark depression which threatens so many years.

On 5 March 2000, and as deep as it is experienced (not to be missed for cinema lovers, the magnificent full pot made in 1998 by Marc Dorcel), Lolo sees light at the end: she was found lifeless at his home in Grasse with enough drugs in the body to stun an elephant, dwarf, and despite suspicious signs of strangulation, which led to the arrest of her husband, the police investigation concludes ultimately to suicide. In accordance with his wishes, Lolo Ferrari is buried a few days later in the strictest enmity in a large white coffin with impressive measurements and where was deposited a copy of his favorite plush, Winnie the Pooh. Finish his career as a funeral for actress vibrator decadent, it's ugly, even for a guy who deserved the flames of hell since the day he caught Piglet in a clearing of the sordid Acre Wood while Tigger and Eeyore were watch, but that's another story.

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borked Theory: God is a station master

It may seem strange, and I was surprised myself surprised when I heard the news, but it seems if we are to believe the cousin of my brother who was himself a guy who fell over a gray day on a regular dock Montceau-Les-Mines, a charming town, moreover if indeed the post-industrial architecture of the twentieth century draws all your favors and you are not subject to various types of pathologies ranging from claustrophobia deep chronic depression, but it seems that in reality, God is a station master in the Pas-de-Calais.

Why Pas-de-Calais ? And why not? Where there is discomfort, there's no pleasure, and where there's no calais, there's always an idiot to ask why God would have had the crazy idea to settle in one of worst places of creation. The answer is obvious: God is testing and trying to prove that 2000 years of suffering is a necessary evil to enjoy happiness. That's exactly the same reasons that God invented trains, he loves the views inevitably endless amount of variety of punishments available to him on a meal tray to allow the SNCF to test daily the faith of men with little tired. Let's get serious a moment: if God really existed, our train is not always the one with two hours late, we would not face a throng of happy sluts reeking of patchouli and spitting in their ignorance of suicidal cell phones, to a crowd of gnomes whiners trying to beat the world record for crossing car, screaming for death, and a gaggle of old debris, sourdingues survivors from another time who feel compelled to make conversation by whirling their banalities syphilitic poor eardrums of your servant. In short, if God existed, we would not be obliged to bear on every trip that many distressing magnifying whose number is expected to complete at least two or three trains direction Birkenau, ten minutes off, everyone from the ashes.

Unless this is just yet another proof that you send us, God, man, in your infinite mercy which equaled on Earth that talent Yoann Gourcuff. No thank you. Those who love me take the car, and if that does not bother you too much to push to Montceau-Les-Mines, I have someone to visit.

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Letters to My Future-Ex (36)

A the sickle

And you left me, not even for another
For a nobody who has already more than I
You just left me because he had
You've just tired because you had something else


You did not ask if I knew why
It fell pretty good. I did not know enough
And many have regrets
miss it over with as guilty
Already I find it takes me happy
able to tell me that for once, I was not scared From
admit defeat.

And twenty asses is all what I would have won
The twenty asses the bitch who quickly succeeded t'auront
In my bed of pain, which has seen too many past
Small chicks not a little proud of himself fucked
And then move on to posterity
From poems to the idiot, full of rhymes over hurdles at

craggy.

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Dictionary impromptu: Good Scott

Born on a fine morning in July 1946 in the small Scottish town of Kirriemuir, a charming village in the north whose specialty appears to be a strange sort of cocktail of white wine supplemented with berries, Ronald Belfort Scott moved with his parents very young at Fremantle, South West Australia. This is the first time the young Ronald finds himself upside the head, and that's a bad habit that he does not really separate.

very young Ronald was nicknamed "Happy" by his classmates, not that he is endowed with an extraordinary spirit of generosity, but rather as a diminutive of "Bones, bones, for those who do not fully mastered the language of Peter Shilton. His colleagues mocked incessantly of his strange Scottish accent, Bon Scott was fighting regularly in the school yard and had acquired a reputation as a tough, hard as a bone, in fact. In fact, he left school at fifteen, became a garage mechanic, electrician, postman, bartender and bus driver, did a little jail for having siphoned gasoline, is trying to enlist in the Australian army but kicked out quickly when officers realize that it is he who is completely siphoned.

In 1964, tired of accumulating small jobs, Bon Scott tries his luck as a rock drummer and founded The Spektors, merging quickly with another local group to give The Valentines, rock'n'roll combo whose glory has been done the first part of The Easybeats in Perth, whose guitarist is none other than ... George Young, older brother of Angus and Malcolm. The Valentines split in 1970 and Bon Scott joined the progressive rock band Fraternity, is the first part of Status Quo and released two albums that we hope never to have to listen one day, two works which now use the guys Guantanamo to admit the evil terrorists. Fortunately, Bon Scott in 1973 was the victim of a terrible motorcycle accident that plunges him into a coma for three days, cell the time it takes Fraternity to find another drummer. So much for the rock.

We are in 1974, Bon Scott just married Irene Thomas, very good too, and works as a bus driver in Adelaide when he meets by chance the two most famous brothers in rock history, and Angus Malcolm Young. Neither one nor two, he starts driving the minibus to Ac / Dc and then replaces the singer Dave Evans a few months later, just before AC / DC did so in 1975 the very electric "High Voltage". With his inimitable stamp and his Scottish accent, Bon Scott brings to Ac / Dc suspicion of madness that was missing yet the group to take off, and Let There Be Rock Powerage then finish installing the Australians as one of the major groups of rock history, before qu'Highway To Hell uprooting everything in its path in 1979. It's good, good is good for morale.

Bon Scott has not so much as to enjoy this brand new success: February 19, 1980, after a very wet night in a London club, he is escorted to his home in his Renault 5 by a certain Alistair Kinnear, who failing to wake him leave pioncer in its crate with a blanket. The next day found him still asleep, he worries and finally takes him to hosto, where his death was found a few minutes later. Fucking car. Bon Scott's death is still surrounded by some mystery, we're talking bulk emission of exhaust gases, hypothermia fatal overdose of heroin and more likely, death by suffocation in his own vomit. The fact is that the body is repatriated illico Bon Scott in Fremantle, where a statue was erected in his likeness and where his tomb is quickly becoming the most visited grave in Australia, becoming in 1998 a monument of national heritage in Australia. It is good?

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Letters to My Future-Ex (35)

My heart beats the charade

My heart beats charade
Just guess what lies behind my woes

My first was at the head of the alphabet triumphant
My second is no longer too sure you want to be so hard
My third would still mean well

And my whole transition is at your feet

Lovers.
Foutu. Foundered.

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The real true story of Juliette Montague (2)

And it seemed to be a good day, it would be a perfect day, and it's almost annoyed to have to castrate his creative impulses, but the pretty wicker chair she had spotted before the bar of the Arrow last week certainly did not wait half an hour, then , dress summer, light sandals strung light, a touch of makeup, light, stairs swallowed the fly, laughing, hand in hand, the little breeze that made them a kiss on the way, light, scent heady souk which is already filled lungs at fifty yards away stand vinyls hand that smacked good return of psychedelic, old books horny just waiting to slice their delicate hands to live a new life, the cries of the showmen and the rustle of onlookers, the rattan chair who waited patiently and quietly in a corner which Juliet sat happily to take their usual cup of coffee at Bar Tabac, two euro miss, thank you, eighty cents per rod and seven euros and forty-nine of vegetables to prepare a salad, side by side, in its income small kitchenette which gradually fills with the smell of sour house dressing, my God, He prepares the dressing well, and God knows that this is not the least of his talents, he might even show him his hocus-pocus favorite after dinner, one where he manages to make her come just by touching her body trembling with hands of aesthetic, but no, there he is again seized his pen in a poor state of cabalistic signs to cover entire pages of a notebook dug under the bed and Juliet looks at him with a strange pantomime fun , head tilted to the side, she will leave him a break, anyway, and he is chewing on his ear by surprise a few minutes Later, when she tries to put the finishing touches on his last picture he admires the composition and vivid, he always loved what she did to him, and He is interested in something other than the columns of numbers of rare vulgarity, He is there, nearby, visibly upset by the resemblance of the portrait and the position suggestive of the young woman's table and the position of the languid young woman who painted the picture in which He would do well to take a whole bunch of other positions, and he slipped on the deck a blues record that he just bought, and extorted him one last orgasm in exchange for attentive listening to his last paragraph, panting, breathless, as troubled by the virtuosity of her writing that the obsessive precision of her caresses, bingo, banco, she wins both ways and began to think that she really very lucky to live one day as perfect, while the steeple of St. Michael rang again, not far away, above the tiles of slate district, darker, dense and menacing than ever .

Juliette Montague on the elbow straightens, absently stroking his shaggy mop of dozing lover, approach her lips to his ear and whispers with any softness which she feels able, despite the urgency of the situation:
"It's five o'clock, my dear. You'd better go, my husband will not further delay ".

was really a perfect day.

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impromptu Dictionary: Ava Gardner

Let us today on the tumultuous life and turbulent career of a great lady of Hollywood, the dangerously poisonous Ava Gardner. Oh, Ava ... Ava. Yes, I'm fine, thank you, but it's not me speaking.

Born on Christmas Eve 1922 in a family of tobacco farmers in North Carolina, where the wicked neg 'font' ien in plantations that piss to piss the pat'ons, Ava Gardner dispassionately following courses shorthand typist to please her parents. But the girl only dreams of one thing out of his hometown full of rotten noi 'who' hile at 'eluquer de'ière her, and often visits his older sister Bea, New York' s Adoption married to a professional photographer. It totally captivated by the charm of the young Ava (yes, okay, thank you, you will not ask me all the time), takes hundreds of photographs he sent to MGM studios on the advice of a friend who works there. At 19, the beautiful sign a seven-year contract at $ 50 per week, and went to Hollywood with her sister, right fairy tale.

But the fairy tale will not last for if Ava is good, Ava comes from North Carolina, and his drawl to disband what to do more than one producer. She still gets small roles but will mainly deal with the general public by putting the bed in his leading man Mickey Rooney, married and then divorced in the wake sixteen months later, regrowth for three years the advances of billionaire Howard Hughes before cracking shabby for a musician named Artie Shaw, it can not be invented, which inevitably it will eventually break through the heart.

Side filmography, nothing to put in their mouths before The Killers in 1946, but Ava (yes, thank you) is still a figurehead without interest, to play good decoration in the films of Clark Gable, Gregory Peck and Robert Mitchum and break the household becomes the mistress of Frank Sinatra, whom she married in 1951 when he divorced Nancy charming mining town of North East and shit, I'm still wrong plug. Ensue (finally) some great roles, My Forbidden Past In 1951, The Snows Kilimanjaro in 1952, Mogambo, and especially the Knights of the Round Table with Robert Taylor, not to be confused with the remake of Claude Rich disregarded because my Robert Taylor is Not Claude Rich, eh, no but.

The Barefoot Contessa makes her consecration, The Night of the Iguana finally reveals the great actress that lies behind his neck pest, and after a few films of this ilk, Ava Gardner concludes his career in 1968 and s settles in London until his last days. Who will put a little time to come, leaving him the opportunity to commit the horrible Harem in 1986 when she fell ill. Ava more too, and she finally died of pneumonia in 1990 at the age of 67. Curtain.

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Letters to My Future-Ex (34)

At the thank you

When you fall in love, it really does not fall. It collapses with all his weight on his knees, face against the ground. And the weapon that was in hand escapes from our hands to roll under a shelf, and the shield which is held tight against us broke into a thousand pieces that sink into our heart. And they fell at the feet of the Other that crushes us all His infinite relative superiority. The soldier abandons us, we are more than simple civilian, as low a newborn. And the white flag that tends forward, the shroud covering a gesture dry remains of our freedom gone.

We capitulated to the first warning shot that passes over our heads already inclined, petrified by the absence of knee-jerk reaction of our body, held at gunpoint by a watchful, kept in check by a failing heart. We give ground, inch after inch, the sign of the fingertips act of peace in the household, and one guard position, prostrate, prostrate. And wait. Offered at the nape of fatal cleaver separation, one expects the move. Because it's right, be in love: Wait patiently and continuously blow.

Or, you can always decide to fight. Resist the invader. Go underground. Organize urban guerrilla warfare against his own instincts. Wield its weapons. Hide her tears. Be assertive, not to doubt. Be equal to that which seems to dominate all his infinite relative superiority. To upgrade.

I had an imaginary friend, in time, as you told me that it was bullshit, these stories of power within the couple. He was found the head embedded in the toaster, the mutilated body masher. He must have forgotten to put his shoes on entering, or ride one too close to the bottom.

But that's not the issue, miss. I'll keep you head, if only because I want as much to the life I want to.

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The real true story of Juliette Montague (1)

It would be a perfect day. Juliet Montague absently stroked shaggy mane that rested on his shoulder bare and heaving to the sounds of breathing calmed, and then tried pulling the tongue to clear a path to the edge of the bed without waking the poor boy is exhausted by the three Successive orgasms that she had withdrawn long, as evidenced by the countless bags of condoms gutted that littered the floor of his small loft Bordeaux, his "bachelor" as she called ... others had their candy fudge prudently garnished until the harsh winter, she preferred to fill his candy much more greedy and well fitted, although this was not necessarily the size that mattered, and again, it could raise doubts about it, not sure that his stallion is as much thanks to him the day he would no longer be able to make it enjoy so hard, to drumming neighbors across the walls of his apartment, dirty rats, old skins embittered and frustrated, it would still squeak behind her back and she would have to deny everything en bloc again, well, the coffee was ready, that's what he trafficked in her kitchen earlier in the morning, at a time when the sun coaxing the month of July was just beginning to cast its first rays over the Garonne whose reflections glowing ochres danced joyously before his eyes still half closed, as she sipped her coffee with small hissing noise which he enjoyed, and the tick throat so special that He was the only one to bear, even commenting on a chuckle sound that suddenly emerged from under the sheets with lavender He was emerging painfully clumsy that ghost suddenly turned into a prince charming fairy tales with the flaming sword proudly outstretched toward the heavens, tearing at a small smile touched Juliet she hastened to punish swiftly by diverting the gaze so as not to get caught up in the heavenly vision his powerful torso and tail silky penetrated with this haunting rhythm that only he seemed to know measurement, bing, bang, ding, dong, and now the church clock struck eleven o'clock Saint Michael the dot and the end of the market nearby, ding, dong, and her long hands that is contained with ease on its delicate hips when he took possession of his body and came into her with such force that she was biting the pillow so as not to scream and close their eyes to remove these images from his head before being tempted to join in the shower, but now he already came out, fortunately, dressed fresh look naughty and pen already nibbled at the mouth, feverishly searching eye throughout the apartment a piece of paper on which lie loose all night thoughts that had assailed his cortex, to return to the bed and stammered as a result of nonsensical words that made him smile in his half-Juliet sleep, as she tried to imagine what that might give once delicately put in order with the verve that she knew him in his good days.

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impromptu Dictionary: Albert Camus

Albert Camus was born in 1913 in Mondovi, charming little town in the eastern Algerian coast nicknamed "Little Paris" without it knows exactly why: point you in Mondovi with a map of Paris and you are bewildered by ten minutes. As told so Coluche, they say they want to develop tourism, but they do not care of our mouths, there's not a street that matches.

The following year, the first world war and the young Albert Camus never know his father, a wine merchant in Algiers killed at the first clashes. It is therefore raised by his mother, half deaf and who can neither read nor write, which is always better than a half-cop, you know, those people who can not read. Very quickly, Albert Camus won a scholarship and went to study in Algiers, where he began a promising career as a goalkeeper, quickly cut short by tuberculosis who is hitting in 1930. Rested forced Camus wrote his first book, "The Wrong Side and the Right" and then worked for Republican Algiers, the newspaper of the banned Popular Front in 1940. Whatever. Albert divorce the same year Simone Hie, wife Francine Faure and bar in Paris where he finds a job as a copy editor in Paris Soir. In 1942 released "The Stranger " huge blockbuster of French literature including can not underestimate that too little negative influence on modern civilization without the Stranger, no Killing An Arab without Killing An Arab , no cure, no cure, no Indochina, and without Indochina, it would still be much more cushy.

We are in 1944 and Albert Camus became friends with Jean-Paul Sartre while taking the leadership of the clandestine newspaper Combat, which is one of the few French intellectuals to denounce the use of the atomic bomb in 1945 by U.S.. Pacifist and humanist despair, he returned to Algiers during the war in Algeria in 1956, to launch his famous "Appeal for civil truce," incurring the wrath of separatists who threaten the dead. Albert Camus was very touched by the confidence of his fellow Blackfoot and writing this year's Fall , pessimistic book possible.

Without having anything in writing other interesting stuff from abroad, in 1957 he received the Nobel Prize for Literature (or was he spinning Franquin who came to lay the character GastonLagaffe). Three years later, January 4, 1960, he suffered a car accident driving at 180 mph by Michel Gallimard, nephew of the publisher Gaston (Gallimard, Lagaffe not, take a little), died instantly and was buried in a small village in the Luberon, where he had bought a property. 50 years later, Nicolas I, king of idiots (remember, a jerk, it dares all, why we even acknowledges), proposes to transfer the remains of Albert Camus in the Pantheon. When I heard that, it seemed that the sky opened over its entire extent to let the fire rain. My whole being was tense and I clenched my hands on the revolver. The trigger failed, I hit the belly of the stock and polished it there in the noise both dry and deafening that it all began. I shook the sweat and sun. I realized that I had destroyed the balance of the day, the exceptional silence of a beach where I was happy. So I fired four more times on an inert body where the bullets sank without it seeming.
And it was as short as four shots I knocked on the door of unhappiness.

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Letters to My Future-Ex (34)

I could let go

Typist (name) : A person whose profession is to type text in a typewriter.
(Pocket Oxford Dictionary, 2004)

Dactylover (name) : A person whose profession of faith would be to tap our story to the dream machine. (Dictionary of the Heart Light, 2004)

I could let go, open up, trust me
But if I'm telling too
Will you still under the spell?

I could let go, open up, you entrust
But if I'm telling too
You would not have to fill yourself my empty boxes

I could let go, open up, you But if I entrust
do you say You could take too


fear I could let go, open up, you entrust
But even if I'm telling too
You'd still be far from your truth

I could let go, open up, but if you give
I'm telling too
You'll need a healer talent

I could let go, open up, you entrust
But if I'm telling too
I could not stop myself I could

let go, open up, you entrust
But if I worry I might say too
lover dose

I could let go, open up, you entrust
But if I tell thee
too I'd have to kill you afterwards.

I could let go, open up, you entrust
worry if I do not say enough
I die a little every day with my secrets

So listen. And take notes. You'll be my dactylover of record.

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The real true story of Noah Darwin (4)


At the same time, what woman would have been stupid enough to give a simple look at an old fool in his way, and what woman would have followed him in an old Soviet submarine buried in a garden Commuter trains to protect them from electromagnetic and potential disaster which thermonuclear he had always been unable to prove even one tenth of plausibility?

Noah Darwin slapped both hands on the table. He had no real choice. Its reserves dwindled greatly, and he could not decently expect blissfully death after struggling for years. If he was still a hope, if there was any hope for humanity, he could only lie in the existence elsewhere, somewhere in the world, some of whose surviving he would trace before convince them to procreate with him, even though it was only rickety old knotty muscles. For this, he would have already put one foot outside, and this perspective alone the far more terrified that all women of the world, yet he had a fright from a young age. Groping, Noah Darwin took the combination of coarse cosmonaut he had spent the last few years to continuously improve the sealing and handling, without really being satisfied that it is sufficient to cope with the outside atmosphere. Actually, he did not know what could wait just outside, but a tissue of more or less scientific projections about which he had stopped to change his mind, sailing in assumptions optional bullshit theories to suit his mood, cramming hundreds of contradictory books on the subject without ever reaching a decision. Maybe he was wrong at all with everything and the outside temperature was around +93 ° rather than -67 °, in which case Cramer on site in seconds instead of struggling painfully few hours against the cold. Maybe that instead of dry and cracked earthquakes repeatedly that he was calculating the existence, the oceans have flooded much of the land known, in which case the heavy combination does it serve to sink quickly to the bottom of the water to forget his dreams of rebuilding the human race. Maybe he was tired of perhaps, and doubtless it was time to get to the bottom. Is jumping up, Noah grabbed Darwin combination on the table and slipped it carefully. He opened the hatch leading into the lower floor, crossed eyes the thirty pair of frightened eyes that rose to the sudden light, as if they could understand after all these years together, told them to a trembling voice that it was on and there was nothing to worry about. He took the merry cackling of hens as a sufficient incentive, closed the door behind him after kissing of his fellow prisoners look one last time, and quickly joined the top floor of the submarine by running mechanically in passing all the gestures he repeated hundreds of times in his sleep. At the moment he was about to enter the security booth, the whole carcass of the craft trembled again as if the metal plates were s'éventrer from one moment to another, and Noah was Darwin cringe. Heart pounding, he took a deep breath, crossed himself and quickly closed behind him the heavy steel door before hitting a weary gesture on controlling the opening of the external input. First, Noah Darwin saw nothing. Nothing but white. Dazzled by the harsh light, he felt of all the members of his body and saw with relief that he was still around. By vacillating, he stepped forward, trying to escape the painful mass of brambles that barred access to the submarine. He had never been so happy have to be careful not to prick the spine rough. If some vegetation had survived, not all was lost. Cautiously, he pushed his way through the huge bush that surrounded the whole area a few meters in the center of the cone which disappeared underwater polished almost completely buried. Another few meters, and he would know what to expect. Another few inches and he could breathe, or cry bitterly, he did not know yet. Still a few millimeters, and it was there. He was there. Wobbly on his legs, Noah Darwin put his hand to the visor of his helmet and burst suddenly tears. It was worse than anything he had ever imagined.

Despite his six and a half years hardly packed, Jenny Carlton was a young girl rather unglazed and a bit cheeky. His mother had forbidden him to show people the finger, but the strange man dressed as Buzz Light year who had just landed in the middle of their playground was simply hilarious, and she could not help but s' esclaffer in stirring up all his little friends with loud cries delighted that covered not only great sorrow the humming sound of the nearby subway. It was a beautiful summer day in Central Park and nothing seemed to disturb the tranquility of the moment. Above the heads of laughing children who were preparing for a joyous medley kneeling around a cosmonaut, an antique lamp blinked maliciously. He gave some signs of weakness since the great blackout of 2011 which plunged the country into darkness for two whole days, but it seemed that today was a good day to die out completely.

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impromptu Dictionary Fausto Coppi

Castellania Born in 1919 in a small village in the province of Alessandria, Fausto Coppi was the fourth child of a family of humble peasants Italians like you see in the movies of Antonioni, these magnificent frescoes countryside with names as evocative as "Ti Amo In Grangeo" or "fork in the Una Culotta. Fausto is not very cinematic, are something to him from an early age, it's the bike: at 14 he left school and returned to learning as a delivery boy at a deli, a good excuse for exploring the region in every direction on his bike, dreaming of tomorrows rim.

At 15, he met Biagio Cavanna, a blind masseur who takes him under his wing and makes him realize his potential by constantly fiddling the rib cage, he had overdeveloped. Fausto Coppi is not the kind of gear to be so little, he follows the advice of the master, won his first race at age 19, turned professional at 20 and won the Giro in stride for his first. We are in 1939, and the voracious war rears its nose on the starting line. Fausto Coppi could be reformed because of his privileged status, but it's not a pedal: he joined the Italian army, was taken prisoner by the English three months later and expect 1945 to return home .

The war is over, cycling resumed its rights : The colors of the Bianchi team, Fausto wins in 10 years has almost everything he can to win (the Giro d'Italia 5 times, two Tours de France and world champion in 1953) and invented style while the flexibility that is quickly dubbed the "Albatross. Adept in all kinds of innovations, he experimented with new ways of training, focuses on improving the equipment and dietetics, including inventing the famous passage plan without saddle. Ouch.

After 10 years of racing where he constantly outperforms all its competitors, Fausto Coppi is a tire tired. Marked by the disappearance his brother, who died in a fall at the finish of the Tour of Piedmont, Fausto is there anymore. He gradually abandoned the laces of the Tour de France to climb the cervix of his mistress Giulia Occhini, he has a son named Faustino. The scandal, Fausto think to stop the bike but accepts one last race in Burkina Faso charity. On his return at Christmas 1959, Fausto Coppi did not feel very well but think first of the flu. Doctors do not understand that he was too late chopper malaria, and the great Italian cyclist died on January 2 1960, doubled by a hose death on the finish line.

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Letters to My Future-Ex (33)

Week of little

Textual Harassment (exp.): Weapon of mass seduction on unsound foundations automatically receive anonymous and fine phrases (almost) without consequences to the elected to his heart. (Sociopath Dictionary, 2004)

Monday
Miss
The first time I've seen, the Fa has shifted beneath my feet, whereas normally it is the Sol, it's you say if I was troubled.

Tuesday
Miss
Put Cupid on short I never emerged as a necessity. Especially in view of the disastrous economic situation that currently suffering the archangels following the devastating stock market crash of action of heaven on our good old planet entirely subject to the temptations and sins of the evil indestructible. But so, poor boy goes without doubt the halo away bite, but he can keep his arrows in his quiver. One will suffice. Touché.

Wednesday

Miss May I draw your kind attention, oh undeserved, on the assumption actually quite plausible (although ridiculously uninteresting) that may well be that, by the merest chance, and any remaining credibility in proportions sufficient to safely move the tight control your skepticism, it is therefore possible that there is down here for a very small possibility that, Miss, I finally allowed my great shame to confess unvarnished my pen and my heart loosens plucks at each of your as brief and sudden appearances qu'éclairées an aura that only you possess.

Thursday
Miss
I hate poets. Deliciously. There is nothing that makes me laugh out loud more than the figure of speech discomfited the young romantic disheveled in the wind while walking beside the raging sea, the dark curls of his bush flying her face while her carefully spray whip long coat worn pockets artistically holes, in which he pressed his thin hands of aesthetic moaning about the evil nature of the world groans studious that accompanies multiple quotes Baudelaire learned in the glow of the candle and tear around in her little room for students Bobos Arts. So insist no, I do not write you a poem. Or very short. Here is one. Fairly short, you'll see:
Mademoiselle.
is you.
That's all. That
.

Friday
Miss
From the time you receive my share of authentic and no less delicate fiery missives, I despair of ever receiving an answer, a sign. It is true, the role of a poor innocent victim and shamefully persecuted by the sexually obsessed manic-depressive service that puts Hannibal the cannibal for a charming host summer camp, that role, of course, is not easy. But you would go beautifully, and I see that you definitely do not make any effort to get into this character I've patiently offered long feathers.

Saturday
Miss
What was my surprise to receive this message from your hand gently signed. I therefore invite you to an appointment. What wonderful progress. Nay, a leap forward, one small step for mankind but a big jump from the fallen angel by the life I am. What a charming attention. What a voluptuous sensation. What a magnificent folly. I would not. Not crazy, wasp, if you think your honey is enough to attract irretrievably the bee in your nets, the hive was rude. I do not know for whom you take me, but I'm not what you think. I'm not one to sleep the first night, much less to be seduced by stratagems as shameless as you.

Sunday
Miss
As you've probably been able to appreciate, I yielded to your sirens and changed his mind at the last moment.

I came.
I've seen.
I am defeated.

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The real true story of Noah Darwin (3)


Noah Darwin encourage each other to loud, slapped both hands on the table to motivate himself and walked with his arms full to the last level of the submarine, casting a glance around him happy. He still did a great job so far, more than anyone in the world would have been even able to imagine having the idea.

He was recovering water from a subterranean pocket sealed with an ingenious system of pipes embedded in the rock, and had sought for weeks to install a costly filtering equipment that allowed him to regenerate its own oxygen by removing the portion that damned carbon. Everything would be almost perfect if his limited knowledge of advanced electronics had not helped repair many measuring instruments scattered on the surface and had probably been damaged upon impact, but it saved him at least to make bad blood every time he laid eyes on the dials desperately stuck on red. Certainly, he would have preferred that this huge block of stone does not come to ask a few inches from the lens of its central periscope. But it was certain that the daily sight of corpses and the general desolation that reigned in the surface would have been likely to cut his appetite, and that was again all he had left.

The triumphal reception which was right in Darwin Noah entering the barn, which occupied the entire bottom of the submarine is enough to make him smile a few moments. He patted the rump handed to him kindly Jeannine complimented length hens on the brightness of their feathers and stepped over three piglets who snored deeply to go pour the soup into the common trough plant. The place was sometimes thought of a delicious smell, the sweet smell of promiscuity was something infinitely reassuring in his eyes ... but he knew that too, should do something soon. Even if he had been careful to take along with him that animal species to which he lent some assistance in regard to its survival and gradual restocking of the planet, the patchwork of animals crowded together on others in a happy mess snatched a groan of sympathy and he remained there a few moments, prostrate, pushing ever more the idea that all this had to end one day, one way or another. The rough tongue of his Brittany Spaniel, a strong male eight years the brown coat, eventually tear it from its torpor. He stroked her head back a few seconds, jumped up and left almost regret his menagerie to return to the top floor by the hatch bobble, which he closed the heavy door behind him tight to not hear the incessant chirping of cattle. He put the container on the table, sat down and put his head between his hands, staring into space. One cat who had maliciously slid after him through the narrow scale of communication came to settle in low mewing between his knees, and stroked her absently Noah Darwin the top of the skull. It would be a cat sometimes, and not have to ask so many questions. It would be a cat for not being a human, not being responsible, somehow, if only because it was against his part of this accursed race, the greatest catastrophe ever known humanity. It would be like a cat does not have to wonder what he could find after all that, cornered like a rat on a sinking ship amid a sea of tangled corpses. Really, what a brilliant idea he had there. Sometimes, he would have preferred to die stupidly in the first few seconds of chaos, he hoped not to have been driven by this kind of stupid survival instinct that led him to believe him capable of it. And now he was the last living man on Earth. It made him look good. Brilliant, really brilliant. As bright as it could be in as high regard that he could wear his intellect, he had to go down that clearly, he had forgotten a fundamental characteristic of the evolution of mankind Adam and Eve were two. And he was all alone, like an idiot, surrounded by his menagerie on which he focused all his attention.

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