Published: Mon, June 26, 2017
World | By Tasha Manning

Clouds and Guts

Yesterday, yesterday, something happened.

I was sitting in a basket of ears with my nose, about 4:40 a.m. M., Playing a solitary with the middle arcana scattered in my lap as I waited for Henri Sauvage to return with the revolver he had promised me. Apart from the wing chair and a full size Porcelain porcelain, there was only one old electric toaster and a pile of Kippel everywhere. I tried to plug it in to check that it was working, and when I put the plug in the socket, the toaster exploded in a cloud of molded Bakelite shards that left me totally unharmed and out the window, A charcoal stereoscopic squawking followed by the unmistakable aroma of a good grilled Araucana.

I fought my eyebrows. I felt it for the bird, but it was not my fault that I decided to wager precisely on that cable, having all the sky to fly, so I grabbed my cards and left there. I decided to save myself the revolver and the scandal and bet on insurance. At home he had a semi-automatic hand mirror that would be more than enough to neutralize Mo and retrieve Bubbs' gift. Anyone knows that the weak point of all mime is to face their own reflection, come on, they know until the paramecia. Besides, there was the whole matter of the hierarchy of needs, the pagoda of Brian, whose base is the sandals, and according to which I was buried to the temple, barefoot and unarmed.

I left the Taraij district down the stairs of Lechariot, seven steps, no less, and each one more irregular than the previous one; And then I reached the square of the torcamús, whose central fountain - and this almost nobody knows it - is decorated with authentic Turkish turquoises of the occipital Anatolia; But I was just passing by because my house is a little more there.

I ran to meet him, because he had not recognized me and was not going to run towards me. And the closer I got to it, the less I resembled the image I had made of what Bubbs would be like after all this time. The little man stared at me as if he was being confused by another and I told him that he was not Bubbs.

-Hey, you're not Bubbs! Quidam, who was definitely not Bubbs, did not even know who he was talking to, he showed me the palms of his hands without any stigma, and he went down the street without saying good-bye. . I told him: A militos tank, out of nowhere, followed a terrible engine crash and, for a moment, the snapshot reminded me of that zonguonesa movie, that of the Tiananmen cavalcade, But with an alternate end in which the pusillanimous is torn apart by the links of the Lombard traction device of the armored armored car of the militia.

I threw myself to the side of the street exercising a pretty, Improvised, with which I left the trajectory of the portable roller and went to fall in a puddle yesterday, not the other, which turned out to be dry; And, except for the nails of the feet, that I broke all, otherwise, I left again unharmed and fled in terror.

From the inside, it smells like ash in Estagira. The walls look gray like a brown bear in a daguerreotype and no river is heard, you hear a river. A continuous flow of outstanding business and promises in all directions. Everything is important, then nothing is. I felt it from within and felt relief. And I forgot Bubbs. And I left.

Reach the Fingerboard by humming Tannhäuser's Requiem with an androgynous smile. I winked at Policarpo under the towers of the moment, and he, an accomplice in the Lundonite dialect, made a small powdery glass and a bottle of Auriga's fagodoro appear and left everything to my mercy.

Manihot (Euphorbiaceae) in Bolivia, part I: Three new species and a new record | SpringerLink
A remarkable new Manihot (Euphorbiaceae) from the coastal sand plains of Sergipe, Brazil. Engler (ed.) Das Pflanzenreich, Regni Vegetabilis, Conspectus IV. 147 II.

"You look good," said Poli.

"I know," I mumbled. I just found Bubbs in pieces.

-May good, time changes you.

-That and a Type 97 Te-Ke of five tons. I killed a bird today.

-Bah, someone had to start doing something!

- And these? I mean, are not they ever coming? - At this time? Besides, I suppose that today they will go to Mo's farewell; Yesterday they found it swollen and dead, floating in the Muil. By the way, you will not have anything to do, right?

-I? Yarboclos, no! I mean ... I meant to frighten him a little, maybe hurt him severely, liquidate him, end his dumb tyranny once and for all ... but from there to ubivarlo ... "I filled the glass and emptied it in my gorlo for a bite.

-I guess that, after all, no longer matters, but I wonder what was Bubbs' gift and what the hell contained.

-It gives me the same. I hate surprises.

Like this: