Land of coffee, land of winds, land of oddly moistened bints

Sunday, 07 January, Year 10 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

It is so windy here I can never find where the girl parked the car. No, seriously.

Moving on, this is a shop :


Exactly acrosss the street there's a different-same shop (which I actually prefer). To focus on the core :


Meanwhile in a different part of town, there's an entirely different if entirely related shop :


I did not buy anything because not really being part of this cultural tradition (admitting they have one), I do not know what to buy. In other lands, I can swoop in and pick the ~only useful and valuable item from a piled up collation of books-as-mere-items maintained by an intellect recently repurposed from floor washing, ticket tearing and other such monkeyism at the cost to my eye of half minute's survey ; but here I lack the hierarchy and consequently all those books are so many hamburgers to me, I couldn't pick among them.

Moreover, there's scant need for written poetry because you sea...














Sadly the mechanical eye is not very good at capturing the subtle hues, but I suspect you understand me nevertheless. After all, words are also not particularily apt for capturing...

Meanwhile in other vignettes, girl at optometrist's office, getting fitted for a new pair (ie, two of the individual items you insanely refer to as "pairs" of glasses, as if they were somehow a disparate or at least disparable item -- pair of tits is one thing, but pair of glasses ?!) : "What happened to your old pair ?" "I just lost them." "At the beach ?"

Motherfucker knew! They probably have a deal with the ocean, the optometrists here, they offer it baby turtles and in exchange it pilfers glasses. Anyway, I pulled both calves, both thighs and turned both ankles jumping waves, they had to carry me away on one of those strange shields they try to stand afloat on. IT WAS FABULOUS.

I was so dead, in fact, that the silly chicken vultures they have here kept flying over me, a couple meters above, in clear anticipation of a meal. They had to post guard at either side, palm leaf fans repurposed to shoo the necrophages away.

I died at sea, and was given a proper sand burial. After which I was revived, because that's the great advantage of dying at sea : you come back.

So here I am again, and see you later again, and so following.

PS. I know now why the locals refer to the cunt as "concha" : if girl goes into ocean dressed (what, a bathing suit counts!), ocean will deposit sand in her slip. And when you peel it off to take a peek, it'll look just like a little shell's been there.

It all makes perfect sense, you just have to know where to look.


Category: La pas prin lume
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3 Responses

  1. [...] eventually become (see ?) recounts his own life. Of his childhood he recalls that he didn't think live shells were such a great scent, but instead preferred the scent to be found in the abandoned ones. This, [...]

  2. [...] times this time, nor at all, nor was I the suspected quarry of overflowing turkey vultures like last time ; but every muscle in my body is thoroughly dead, including the ischiocavernosus, because I spent [...]

  3. [...] went in, myself, against waves standing taller than the camel ; and therein I died again. Just like before only moreso this time. They dragged me back out, I could not stand. I leaned against alabaster [...]

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