Filles du Calvaire.
June Seventh, Two Thousand and Ten After Death.
Twenty-Seven minutes past Four Ante Meridian.
Narrator says: One hour, two minutes and seven seconds ago, Brahman had stood loosely against the wall to my right. Leaning heavily against the drainpipe several inches below the blackened mark, he swore at his feet. He punched the wall around about the cut between the second and third stone from the floor and regretted it instantly.
Manitou stood a little behind him, your side of the two painted over grill faces. Scuffing her sole along the kerb. She let her eyes rest on an abandoned anonymous alimentation bag, and let her thoughts rest on the fate of its fleeting owner. And the assuredly finished contents, assuredly at least two cans of Amsterdam Maximator. The fissure concretely perceivable, in the two foot and a half distance between their bodies, and ever pushing further.
A fissure ripped promptly by inaction. They had formerly been together pressed. Close to the electrical box to my left. Manitou had however, felt more inclined to pay attention to the box and its black paint admonishment, than the amorous come ons of her beau of time passed, current, and inevitable future.
Inaction leading to the deserted scene in which we find ourselves. A deserted scene where in the air lingers final words:
What about your coat?
- Fuck the coat.