Cold with Leaving: Chapter 3 – Weary of the Smaller as a Pair

Next to a cigarette, married to a nightingale, the smooth repeats no evidence straight footprints throughout the skinny burning the desk with anger.

I was looking for the details in a patch of straw in the lines of trees, everything turning into handles I wasn’t expecting. Anything.

I stared into space and there he was – the General with total conviction

“Of course, I’d like to extend you every assistance possible,” he said.

“A gold credit card?”

“I was thinking more like a your eyes in jar of preserves then maybe even buy you dinner.”

Is there a recollection here? This is something like a big deal isn’t it?

You’re fluffy white, the main room made perfect written in the curves of the names like Miranda was trembling how had it been sitting in a chair all day something stable and strong something that would not fold under the circumstances of a confession.

Repeated questionings rubbing cheeks raw and yet not singing.

I felt a stack of counterfeit dollar bills, ripples close to my ear.

“You have to speak up.”

“You don’t know what it’s like stepping in front of cheetah and knowing you could outrun him.“

“In layman’s terms.”

“My friend has this frowning tree. He’s working on something a curator of restraint would realize, what fell away with the holograms, when his body, when…”

A voice began to speak on the whole injustices so soon after landing an ability to proceed with your first encounter – an aristocratic clearing of the throat, a description against a sudden jungle.

“Who’s really looking at your notes? Checking them? Seeing one idea after another listed? Decided? To discover then,” said cheerfully. “In those days the nomads were wheelchair-bound, yet disembodied. Always stealing away to stare at the trophy case are you?”

I traveled around listening to the sound of a voice believed to belong to the bullet, wild into the back of his neck.

“…a confectioner in the storeroom wouldn’t you say?”

“I see you’ve checked your descriptions.”

As you can imagine, I felt.

“Sheer exuberance is short-lived. You have something of value you’re seeking. The tiny images of lines and curves perhaps I couldn’t surely remember.”

“Nothing was located.”

“In a rumpled dress?”

“In black and white,” I said. “You and your friends pulled the wishbone already.”

“Yes. We were embarrassed, but we could not welcome news of a garland. The fury had died down to a fair-minded condemnation, failing with the efforts of deterioration.”

I took the lows and for. The black night news in a low voice dies.

“You need a bit of coaxing, stubble in the snow-use, all the scratches thrust as ons and unders among them. Proceeded, too quickly, you know – when you lift a gem from the box you’re doing the box all wrong.”

I hung by a silver thread in a luxuriant blue clothing warehouse. It was a struggle within ice that can be unpredictable. Yes, the lines can crack like a street without a picture taking away now that everyone’s rising. The statement took only a moment to strike.

He held a pillow to my entrances. Turned himself with calm.

“Your wool suit stood out,” he said smiling benignly. “The usual precautions had to be considered. You must answer me now. Feel free to concentrate on your answer. You think this feels like deprivation. A shift in the conversation shouldn’t take the notes personally.”

I saw blur and this time the phone didn’t ring. There was a window.

I used to tear up until I stretched up in the grade group grew weary of the smaller as a pair the charms clicked off.

“Sorry but I have to meet the Frenchman. Cars are matters of degrees, dignity in Vegas, the Palms in the 20 dreams then may be another valet.”

The cabin had been slept in bitter stables. Working. All around, this is a heart stopping. A Rose going to goodbye. It was some relief, some place I nodded. Yet was this another skirmish. Was his business really that family-figured? The former with his mouth shut.

Self-preservation parked.

“Will I be sunk to the floor? Should I be exhausted?”

“Well, you’re be doing most of the work.”

“I need to understand why.”

“That’s okay. I worked for a bank once. I never really knew why/”

“I’ve been to Venezuela.“

“Maybe we should start from the beginning. Have you ever inspected a bar of gold through the eyes of a monkey?”

“And what the hell does that mean? If I should fail to return some scribbled notes another will be here.”

“You’re just a crazy ex-con a little too far East round the room.”

“And to think I knew you to you heart’s tenderness.”

In my voice punctuation marks. Save one more damn word or a dog’s name.

“Rate crime – punishable by death.”

A moment of gales and trying to imagine a sedan. Between him was all-back working on a difficult problem, to explain the memories of Jules, pressing to return, good business smarter.

She? Then retrieved? Her exact words from, a limb on the mantle.

“You might try to work harder Kiesel.”

Something in the old guitar player crossing the room. She and others, a sudden fairway warm and exquisite and utterly private.

“We’re not the polices. No, we’re not gods like that.”

I was just the fire in the chair the fresh coal to the faintly going right half-light the storm dismissed a hard E. Wing Way out on the limb. Too were much more than I could give and the other reasons arteries and veins keys rubber blades particles of tabby stripes destiny gunpowder is a lucky chance is and never counted on.

“Untie him.”

I gave her a note unsuitable for anyone else.

“So much for being clean.”

Miles up to the highway we were out of sight we were a stream heading North.

“Got any clues?”

Your small exam, carefully, anonymously appeared, once. Yes I wanted it, what too is the ticket. You take a little counter, their ballot, a hundred others like it. Yes, your plane is a Buick, a place to hide abominations at the first anguish. After, would she bring the landmarks Party and Unreasonable This Is and Central No. Of her leaves out of the Emperor.

“I will miss your face trust me, Stoecker”

Windows rumbling through voracious gates.

“Your brother’s never going to recover in the circumstances, in a close touch. Whose nature did you inherit? We’re not to get to any conclusions,” she said.

Drift across the table. I could’ve heard a band a classic trio with all keys. No clean compassions scarcely on the side seemed she would say. Kind of a new sense.

“Anything to do with what happened?”

“With a flat square a circle? The old man himself?”

“If you can call it that.”

“We’re in the same time zone – about 10 o’clock. Go on. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Thanks. Now will you give me a gun.”

“Do I look like nothing but curves and shadows, something with no need for preliminaries, a jittery jog and a dozen mugs gathering the round empty seat.”

“Spell it still in seizures a few inches wide.”

The blank asleep, a shaved frame, a hand weakness, a cradle for a distant church bell.

“Oh, I want you to be the cold marble floor, high-necked.”

“I know.”

“Exactly who was the con, the alcove near expecting.”

“Fireworks to be. A simple matter, a beautiful apology, negligently falling down the rotunda like a utility van. Now you sleep.”

And I might have.

Cold With Leaving is a hastily-written, experimental, part-surrealist, part-neo-dadaist detective/thriller genre novel in progress that I revisit from time to time.

Previous chapters are here:

Chapter 1 – “May I Have a Deeper Chill?” Wondered the Pretty Blank Quietly

Chapter 2 – Leaning Noon, Against the Night

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