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.
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. 
