3 april 2012
Finally there is some movement. My body goes up and down … then again ... over and over again … if they continue like this, I’ll get seasick – though I’ve never seen the sea, but I think it’s about this feeling for me. After 24 hours spend in this moist space, I finally come into fresh air, fresh but not cold it is … the morning sun shines brightly and shimmers, crickets and other vermin have put their twittering already on maximum volume.
I know … my body exhausted, will finally rest, tired of harassing people for pecuniary awards, the invention of flimsy excuses to unsuspecting drivers. A forgotten triangle, an already open first aid box, a newly bought fire extinguisher, you can't think of it … but we found an excuse again … and we could, by noon, be in the maquis to drink local-fired-spirits.
I know … my body exhausted, will finally rest, tired of harassing people for pecuniary awards, the invention of flimsy excuses to unsuspecting drivers. A forgotten triangle, an already open first aid box, a newly bought fire extinguisher, you can't think of it … but we found an excuse again … and we could, by noon, be in the maquis to drink local-fired-spirits.
That last one, I’d better not done, because before I knew I got blind. Done with harassing vulnerable passers, also done with the boozing, because no money, no drinks. I could nothing more or less than staggers through the small hut, which I built for my beloved, when I was still a lad. Since I had no more money – how little it was I brought home – my wife left me. I was only a burden. The children disappeared at the same time.
They found my dead body through the stench from the hut …infesting the neighborhood. No money to buy four shelves for me. One should do the job. On that shelf, half wrapped in a big piece of plastic, I was now brought to my final resting place. Ballyhooed roll around me and laughing and jeering people, God knows where they came from. There is apparently no one … who mourns about me.
The mood becomes excited, thumping on the drums to crescendo. I can smell the tarmac, where I spent so many hours ... seated on a stool, a rope stretched across the road – with some plastic bags-made visible in the hand. Woe to those who noticed it too late and there encountered popped … and stopped to apologize. But just as well they just banged the rope through and the same rope scoured through my hands.
The heat, from the tarmac, of a spinning motor and the roar of a diesel. My escorts have a car standing there now with my dead body held and dancing around it. The shelf where-upon I lay held tremendously over … I can't stop and start scrolling … then the shelf is redressed again and the dancing goes on. The driver apparently gave something, because they dance to a next victim.
I'm starting to smell myself, when I finally got laid on the ground. I hear they still laugh when the Earth is closing around me. My escorts pay me respect, honoring me by making use of my misfortune to extract a few francs from unexpected people … and to drink the toxic local-fired-spirits, which finally killed me.
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