Vincenzo clutched a cold beer, sitting on a chair in the living room. The television broadcast "power games" a new reality show, a format adapted to the Swedish context morally abject Italy.
"I can not believe it. We fell for them too. They also believe that can write "he told the empty room.
He took a sip.
"Shit!", Took the remote from under the seats and increase the volume.
" Many believe that we must have the knowledge to post. The classic recommendation sovereign overlooking our society at all levels. All bullshit, if you allow me the time. Who is able to obtain a contract with, say, a large publishing house, worked hard and hard for years for recognition of its value. "
"So she says that there are no recommendations in an absolute sense?"
"Certainly. It is obvious that in some cases, say, for there may be an exchange ... please? Favor? This is what is reprehensible. But make this a malpractice universal law, well I find, honestly an idiot. Unfortunately in this country, the habit becomes the unwritten law. Consequently, even the mental habits. "
Vincent bent his lips upward. He took another sip. "Funny!"
" My last book comes full circle. Originally, the story had come out in a single volume, but ... "
" The base money got the better ... " said Vincent.
turned off the TV and threw the remote on the floor. "Cursed magic box. A house for drug addicts. A safe place to peddle their ideas viral ".
Only Internet could function as an antidote. Unfortunately, the virus lies were infecting the network. And they were stronger because they had relationships with power.
He took another sip of beer. He put his hands on the long hair. He put the beer on the floor with his hands and shrugged his temples.
A letter of shiny metal. Small splashes of blood rotten at the base of the letter. A city. Small buildings. Flocks of crows. The tower. The black prison of his heart. Then everything becomes cumbersome. The tower gaping its foundations. The tip bends and twists bends to the left of the landscape. The buildings devour space. The walls. The terraces. The doors. A swarm of kids from the lips tightened the joker smiles burst forth like a river in flood. They tattooed on the forehead in the letter. Blood and metal. And he, Vincent, is at the center, surrounded. The crows swooping and their heads are transfigured. Have her face. The face of the writer of the letter. Red blood cola from his hands. Vincent looks down. He no longer has hands. The laughter of the crows invade his mind.
He rose from his chair, taking in an inner order . Only I know. I'm only aware of what causes his lies. Only I know the rot and horror. Only I carry it in my heart.
He went to the wall to his right. A series of photographs, hung with duct tape, decorated the wall. The writer of the nightmare that received awards. The writer of the nightmare in the foreground, smiling and satisfied. The writer nightmare in hand with his novel.
Vincent pulled a dart from the dartboard on the wall. He took a few steps back, took aim and shot. The arrow hit the target. The left hand of the writer of the nightmare.
"Hit! You have left little to write. Now the connection ".
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