A stout man, bald, middle-aged man in a suit and tie, with a large brown leather bag sits next to me, since 12C. He wears glasses and has a white spot on the left ear, like that of someone who has scratched a crust of dry skin. He pulls out a bag from the deck of poker cards and open a Moleskine notebooks model: three consecutive sheets, has a list of eighteen consecutive instructions, ranging from the "mix cards" to "make three piles" up to "the chosen card is an ace of clubs."
Against all odds the man seems to fixate on a point, and about ninety minutes does nothing but fan fucking his flock with flowers and hearts and spades and frameworks: the hope that a cramp in the hands might block lasts until 'landing.
0 comments:
Post a Comment