- Post By: Jason Santo
- Date:
- Category: Uncategorized
#gallery-26 {
margin: auto;
}
#gallery-26 .gallery-item {
float: left;
margin-top: 10px;
text-align: center;
width: 33%;
}
#gallery-26 img {
border: 2px solid #cfcfcf;
}
#gallery-26 .gallery-caption {
margin-left: 0;
}
/* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */
Simon renewed his hustle. He only had twenty minutes left before he had to be at the location. The gun felt heavy in his pocket as he picked up his pace and headed back to his car, and he wondered briefly if there was a way it could go off in his pocket, ending this madness abruptly with a sense of humor only the spinstresses of fate could possess, their thankless work on the loom of destiny equipping them with little fun other than the providence to sever their threads at will with divine shears. What joy it would be in control of one’s one future. But wasn’t that what this was about? Wasn’t money the golden scissors of control? Simon laughed under his breath at the image of himself in a wrapped toga and a blonde wig at a spinning wheel with the glowing lines of his life spilling around his sandled feet. A white sign with handwritten black scrawl simply stating work to be had and now these visions of himself as a laughing goddess, with a pile of money hidden in a wall and a loaded pistol with a silencer that made him look as though he was really happy to see someone. Of course he laughed because this was absurdist comedy, the kind he’s expect from Beckett or Brecht back in school. He was a puppet on strings dancing as something pulled himself through the drowning pool of day labor. And as he moved fast back to his shambling Grand Am, he strode through wind, sun, the flicker of cloud break and rustling leaves, feeling his breast stroke strengthening. May the dead skitter around his periphery like the leavings of late summer death, because he was winter, strengthening, building, growing cold inside but knowing intuitively that this is what survival felt like; knowing life was laughter at the sickness of man and an ability to inflict rather than be inflicted upon. Time bled as he opened the door to his ailing car with it’s familiar ear-straining creak, but he tossed his hat into the back seat, slipped into the new hoodie and crushed the ski mask into its wide pocket. He still had to write the letter. Leaves spun in his wake, lesser souls caught in the thankless wheel of now. And he walked on. (To be continued…)film Kamen Rider Ex-Aid [Tricks] – Kamen Rider Lazer 2017 trailer