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Borges!

Last Update
2019-07-30 06:07:51


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Word had it, they would use that chance to join the separate pieces each of them had been carrying for the past two years.
Occult and sufocated pieces. Disjointed and meteoric ideas, that permanently boiled in their effervescent intimacy, but which perished with time, like condemned to seclusion due to their inability to be anything else than mere intentions, so tied they were to the head and the heart.

The fear that it wouldn't work was patent on each and everyone's eyes and attitude each time the subject was discussed. Running away in dejection perhaps would be the best, or the easiest. But there we were, the perennial handicaps.What now? Well, now we sit on the table, since hunger is keepin a firm grip on us and pushes the body to seek consolation.

Cards were given and there was no turning back. Face to face, shuffle, cut the pack and deal. They're dealing from your left. Take a close look to the one in front of you, to grasp their game. And be careful on your right.

And thus, they would fit the short and automatic rhytmical blows with the uncertainty of the chords, which filled the cushion the melody would sit on.
They weaved the sounds with sharp needles, which jingled like foils in a fencing fight.
Here it is, the balm for the soul!

Later, it was time to put the finishing touches, call it quits with the tailoring that had occupied a couple of months. Time to make the hems, remove the safety pins, make the crease and do the ironing.
And starched like that, put in on a hanger.
Each one had come with a different pattern to experiment with. The test was arduous: sometimes the left sleeve would be a little too long, others it wouldn't fit on the shoulders, and it would be too tight on the waist, like the corset of a Russian dancer. Later on, the trousers would turn out too long, and dragged on the floor. Whole parts had to be unstitched and redone, until they fitted to the imperfections of the body and the imprecisions of the soul.

Well, the smell anticipated a nice vintage. The must settled calm and warm on the copper mill and the vermilion perfume danced in the air, scenting the inebriation of the senses.
At the same time, a fine thread of liquid, the colour of ox blood, fell bubbling on the greenish vessel.
Four bottles are arranged, each of equal volume, but different form - due to the organic composition of the dust deposit they carried which water was unable to clean.
Children of the same father and different mother.
The first one
was characterized by its crossbreeding in tones of old oak, of farmed soil, of Colombian cocoa. Another one could be told by a predominant smell of camphor, and an aftertaste of rosemary and nutmeg (there are some who say its Indian clove, and som others say green pepper). The third one had a rough profile like mountain goats and sweet saliva (like wild-bee honey). And the last one was fiery in its bearing, warm in its hug and enthusiastic in its expression, but it revealed a certain worry in its walk (like afraid of a bad step).

(There's even some who say there is another one, forgotten amidst the enthusiasm that reigned on that rainy morning, but the truthfulness of this piece of information is disputed).

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