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Thursday, September 20, 2007

Bullets for Bêbe

This is not good, or acceptable in any way.

It seems that I am fated (and that sounds shit) to lose those dearest to me.

I can't think about this now. It's all too much.

See, I'm just this observer, standing in the background when things happen. Wading through treacle trying to stop the slow-motion thing going on. But mainly ineffective.

We're at the winder's, and Bêbe is negotiating with this wizened old fuck in the corner of the corrugated iron shack we're in (surrounded by ticking half dismantled automata). And I'm back in the shadows looking on, when there's a burst of light and sound.

And the winder's dead, with her brains splattered up the wall and in the little alcove altar she had, with candles now put out.

And, and, and...

Well, I get out, by running full face into the back, and collapse through the sacking partition, tripping over, measuring my length in the mud outside. And then pull myself through the stinking open sewer, so, covered in shit, I get up quick and realise I made it out, and run like fuck.

Bêbe didn't.

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