The mouth
God then commanded: "Let there be light."
And there was light.
(Genesis 1:3)
We were under the same lamppost every night, like four hookers, torn between the cigarette and blades of grass struggling against the pavement. I, Slice, Checco, Nik. Untied bicycles chained together and went to the city in search of a way never seen before: there is always a row of buildings that escaped your gaze. We were playing in someone else's home. In angles blinds of our brain.
and play dice.
not for money or for glory. It is the number one rule, the most important: the die is sacred. That's what I have, we have: six numbers to play. Play because the world is like a rough road. Attempting to fill the holes. Once
where the current had carried us, slammed to the ground our ships rusty and we will stand side by side. The first pitch was so, to warm up, you did not even look at that. After it was straight to the point. Match dry. Still that was not the killer, the higher number. Why the Killer has feelings, kill the game, which is the first or last. It was one of six rules.
long was the fifth pitch.
We wondered if the water had been able to fade the words that night. Rain rain rain rain. A lot of stunners. Thick gratings as confessionals.
And in the midst of that stone-throwing check a tall man with a gray raincoat and hat, pedaling toward us.
behind a traffic light like a faint spark, the bike left the four-hit the water, right on the lampposts in prayer. Before us a man who seems to come out of a movie.
off the bike on its stand and support. We are looking at. During the matches are all away. During the day, no one temerebbe, but at night people see us as a threat. The
Checco, gracefully: "Fuck you?"
The man looks up. "I have a nut." Mica
enough to have a nut to play, I think. "It's not just play to get a nut," says Nik, who sometimes crosses her sentences. The stranger looks
Slice. He dug a face like a disease, perfectly dry, as protected by a magnetic field drops down from the hat, pushing his face and fall on the shoulder of his coat. Says, "He spits on the ground." Slice
obeyed. He spits on the ground, not far from the shoe man. In a moment the rain washes away his dribble.
"The world is a maze of words. The word "rain" washes away the word "spit". " We
the blade of grass that pushes against the asphalt, the nut hits the road. With six issues that remain challenged its existence. We were looking for the meaning, the way of joining the circle to the line. A new word.
was with us.
'In someone else's home only once, "says the Checco. "Wherever the nut fall fell" Slice continues. "The bike is our ship, the streetlight on our dock" yet Checco. Then Nik "The asphalt is our sea." Slice: 'The Killer kills the game. " It's up to me. Breath deeply and with a solemn tone: "The die is sacred."
The first slice. You put the nut in sight. The die, the Rows of rainfall. I threw up once and recapture stringendoselo in the palm. Via. Parabola arched fast. Rotation: forward. Falls to the ground, he stumbles. Three. Slice dampens a cock between her teeth. It's the turn of
Checco. Checco is the magician of the art. Can do things with a nut that you humans can not even imagine. Fixing the line of cars that closes the road and boat. Unbelievable. Able to give a zig-zag effect worthy of a baseball player. Excellent, as usual. As usual, the king of bad luck: one. I
. I bowed. "A horse of a grave and a difficult birth." It's like a ritual. Then shot. Ground level, with all the strength I have. The nut looks like a machine gone mad, jumping, scaravolta, rimpatta asphalt. Slow down. He stops next to a tire of a blue point oil. Four.
Not bad. Basically I have more numbers behind that front.
Now Nik. Launches its nut up, throws it so high that you do not see anymore. He made the art institute the boy has a sense of aesthetics. The cube falls with the rain. It is a race between water and plastic. Photo finish: the dice on the hood of blue point oil. Toc.
Six. The Killer. I
Slice and we prepare to check the scores. The alien remains impassive in the storm with her eyes fixed on the road. "It's the killer," he says Checco "The game is over." He turns to me and slice two more steps in there. We stop.
'Nothing personal: the regulation, "says Nik," I won. "
"How do you want," says lowering the cap.
I never violated the rules: I know the fragility of the rites. But the man fascinated me. He had no mark. That was why I told him to shoot.
"Go on." Checco Nik and I glared at him.
Aliens concentrates. We pass the nut on the palm as if a shell beads.
The fifth pitch.
the dice and start ribalzare back and forth like a pendulum, and we with him, so he relies on an angle and wheel. Wheel for about ten seconds.
And then silence. In
endless rain, heavy with water, turn it and turn it over to count the faces. In the black road sky blackened by repeating a die is a cube in a cube and that there are six faces.
not possible.
Seven out of six.
Like a cocoon hanging from the vocal cords.
and play dice.
not for money or for glory. It is the number one rule, the most important: the die is sacred. That's what I have, we have: six numbers to play. Play because the world is like a rough road. Attempting to fill the holes. Once
where the current had carried us, slammed to the ground our ships rusty and we will stand side by side. The first pitch was so, to warm up, you did not even look at that. After it was straight to the point. Match dry. Still that was not the killer, the higher number. Why the Killer has feelings, kill the game, which is the first or last. It was one of six rules.
long was the fifth pitch.
We wondered if the water had been able to fade the words that night. Rain rain rain rain. A lot of stunners. Thick gratings as confessionals.
And in the midst of that stone-throwing check a tall man with a gray raincoat and hat, pedaling toward us.
behind a traffic light like a faint spark, the bike left the four-hit the water, right on the lampposts in prayer. Before us a man who seems to come out of a movie.
off the bike on its stand and support. We are looking at. During the matches are all away. During the day, no one temerebbe, but at night people see us as a threat. The
Checco, gracefully: "Fuck you?"
The man looks up. "I have a nut." Mica
enough to have a nut to play, I think. "It's not just play to get a nut," says Nik, who sometimes crosses her sentences. The stranger looks
Slice. He dug a face like a disease, perfectly dry, as protected by a magnetic field drops down from the hat, pushing his face and fall on the shoulder of his coat. Says, "He spits on the ground." Slice
obeyed. He spits on the ground, not far from the shoe man. In a moment the rain washes away his dribble.
"The world is a maze of words. The word "rain" washes away the word "spit". " We
the blade of grass that pushes against the asphalt, the nut hits the road. With six issues that remain challenged its existence. We were looking for the meaning, the way of joining the circle to the line. A new word.
was with us.
'In someone else's home only once, "says the Checco. "Wherever the nut fall fell" Slice continues. "The bike is our ship, the streetlight on our dock" yet Checco. Then Nik "The asphalt is our sea." Slice: 'The Killer kills the game. " It's up to me. Breath deeply and with a solemn tone: "The die is sacred."
The first slice. You put the nut in sight. The die, the Rows of rainfall. I threw up once and recapture stringendoselo in the palm. Via. Parabola arched fast. Rotation: forward. Falls to the ground, he stumbles. Three. Slice dampens a cock between her teeth. It's the turn of
Checco. Checco is the magician of the art. Can do things with a nut that you humans can not even imagine. Fixing the line of cars that closes the road and boat. Unbelievable. Able to give a zig-zag effect worthy of a baseball player. Excellent, as usual. As usual, the king of bad luck: one. I
. I bowed. "A horse of a grave and a difficult birth." It's like a ritual. Then shot. Ground level, with all the strength I have. The nut looks like a machine gone mad, jumping, scaravolta, rimpatta asphalt. Slow down. He stops next to a tire of a blue point oil. Four.
Not bad. Basically I have more numbers behind that front.
Now Nik. Launches its nut up, throws it so high that you do not see anymore. He made the art institute the boy has a sense of aesthetics. The cube falls with the rain. It is a race between water and plastic. Photo finish: the dice on the hood of blue point oil. Toc.
Six. The Killer. I
Slice and we prepare to check the scores. The alien remains impassive in the storm with her eyes fixed on the road. "It's the killer," he says Checco "The game is over." He turns to me and slice two more steps in there. We stop.
'Nothing personal: the regulation, "says Nik," I won. "
"How do you want," says lowering the cap.
I never violated the rules: I know the fragility of the rites. But the man fascinated me. He had no mark. That was why I told him to shoot.
"Go on." Checco Nik and I glared at him.
Aliens concentrates. We pass the nut on the palm as if a shell beads.
The fifth pitch.
the dice and start ribalzare back and forth like a pendulum, and we with him, so he relies on an angle and wheel. Wheel for about ten seconds.
And then silence. In
endless rain, heavy with water, turn it and turn it over to count the faces. In the black road sky blackened by repeating a die is a cube in a cube and that there are six faces.
not possible.
Seven out of six.
Like a cocoon hanging from the vocal cords.
Andrea Cirillo
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