He has eaten his heart, and he rote. Brightly cooked, the meat - it was nicely marinated in a lifetime all kinds of moods, and even love, it seems. So he has eaten. He drank his liver and smoked his lungs, then. Just like condemned to his last feast, his last drink. The next day, all the "guttery" in bulk, of course. Hangover not good in the mirror, strange white skin, just like old newspaper, or the nests of wasps. Hangover friable, he left in tatters the bottom of the basin, while shavin'. On the biggest flaps, there was an article printed, a fact that various talks about a granny raped in a suburb of Rome. It's fun, because in the ashtray, when it came to burn, this piece of paper gray and dry swinging a pretty pink smoke with a sweet smell of cotton candy, certainly the perfume used by the granny to cover her smell old, this smell of urine, ammonia and old leather. This is probably the fragrance that attracted rapists lack of affection.
The perfumer was interviewed by the carabinieri. He says it couldn't be the fault of the perfume, because any celebrations smell cotton candy, and that there are no more rapes - well, not more than elsewhere. Or in retirement homes, at least. It's funny saying that. But everyone knows this is not true. Celebrations is something to get young girl's legs broken, and also for young boys not hairy yet. Serious studies tend to show that being filthy - well, being physically outside, or the opposite of the canons of physical beauty of his time - to be ugly, whatever, does not guarantee not to be violated. Especially in the celebrations. On the contrary, faced with a beautiful woman, the rapist may be afraid not to make the fit, sexually. While an ugly girl, it get laid like an old comfortable sweater, he can even pretend this is a service, a strategy that can play at trial.
After, it was the same. He had finished digesting its heart, he laid down a little piece of coal, and then, the various facts, he could play eyelids without fighting. When a little old lady got raped, he could even polish his cock, with the newspaper, without feeling guilty, without saying that he was not dreaming of an old lady raped. He would have been able to do it himself, because he had not eaten his sex, yet. He would not delay, its old dead dick, while wondering what good taste it could have. She had marinated in love, too, but in love for money. Note, this love he can buy, and operate like a consumer. He requires, he chose the little hole, and a few shouts, please ma'am. Only whores eighty four years, this course not sidewalks.
He dreamed of nylon on varicose veins, he was never hidden, but nobody had ever asked him what he really preferred. Nobody wanted to know. Even more cops interrogators. So he has eaten his heart, bit by bit, by chewing well not to vomit, because the meat of his heart, it was so hard.
The perfumer was interviewed by the carabinieri. He says it couldn't be the fault of the perfume, because any celebrations smell cotton candy, and that there are no more rapes - well, not more than elsewhere. Or in retirement homes, at least. It's funny saying that. But everyone knows this is not true. Celebrations is something to get young girl's legs broken, and also for young boys not hairy yet. Serious studies tend to show that being filthy - well, being physically outside, or the opposite of the canons of physical beauty of his time - to be ugly, whatever, does not guarantee not to be violated. Especially in the celebrations. On the contrary, faced with a beautiful woman, the rapist may be afraid not to make the fit, sexually. While an ugly girl, it get laid like an old comfortable sweater, he can even pretend this is a service, a strategy that can play at trial.
After, it was the same. He had finished digesting its heart, he laid down a little piece of coal, and then, the various facts, he could play eyelids without fighting. When a little old lady got raped, he could even polish his cock, with the newspaper, without feeling guilty, without saying that he was not dreaming of an old lady raped. He would have been able to do it himself, because he had not eaten his sex, yet. He would not delay, its old dead dick, while wondering what good taste it could have. She had marinated in love, too, but in love for money. Note, this love he can buy, and operate like a consumer. He requires, he chose the little hole, and a few shouts, please ma'am. Only whores eighty four years, this course not sidewalks.
He dreamed of nylon on varicose veins, he was never hidden, but nobody had ever asked him what he really preferred. Nobody wanted to know. Even more cops interrogators. So he has eaten his heart, bit by bit, by chewing well not to vomit, because the meat of his heart, it was so hard.
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