Monday 4 June 2012


The neighbour's son wears a ring gold on each fingers, he swaggers and smokes a cigar that towers over his fragile carapace. He grimaces when he see us: we are too young, he is already twelve. When he goes to school his escorts open the door for him, look around and a glimpse of a colt shivers across. We like him sometimes, when he offers us whisky and brags about the universal whore.

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