Incubator
Apa has attacked me some strange sleeping sickness.
Yesterday I managed to sleep only five, after a night of crying and despair against a luminescent figure that seemed odious in the front room. When I regained life in the body are able to get up, go see if my friend had returned home, had it not been closed out with that other girl. The apartment was empty, maybe they were to spend the night outside.
Then a helicopter crash the beach front and drilling water with the propeller breaks and explodes. Now comes a patrol boat to finish the survivors. The tracer bullets
reach one by one the castaways. Dismay, but not give in to fear and take back the scene, then I run on sand hills followed by someone who thinks he saved.
Only at midday, when you wake up, I admit that there was no friend in the program, or guests, and that figure was probably a stupid light lamp. Today
back the dangerous aircraft.
I wake up when an ad in English crackles to fasten their seat belts.
I was asleep and we are landing, Apa is next to me.
Something's wrong. The portholes on both the sides of buildings to fly a distance of concern. I am not aware we were to land at London City and even Apa seems very quiet. I'm beginning to cagarmi under the wing tip touching the buildings, take away pots and linens. For each block of wind gusts are swinging the plane slows down even more. E 'tilted back, the engines do not give power, there is a failure. We're going down to twenty feet, ten, the air is still and not touch the ground. It 'a coveted crash, but denied. This curse is falling like a helicopter, if it touches the ground is broken.
Someone behind me says to get off before it lands. I take off my belt and only now I realize that there is no hood, and then jump off. Via first that everything is in flames.
we move away quickly, no one around until they come to a mountain road.
"Where are we?"
"In Geneva," says one tourist.
Geneva. The airline will have to pay me back, this joke cost me at least two hundred euro. I am very disappointed, we're going to take a bus to Geneva. We go up, the bus is full and part systems, the suitcases. Two or three stops, suburbs, verbal abuse, crime.
Two controllers on the head are raised, Philip and I know you made a mistake.
Standing rummage in bags, he is waiting without apology.
People are really great, the woman in uniform me passing by, does not ask for anything.
There are two stops in Geneva, stopped at a traffic light. From the road
a civilian emergency force the door to the left of the driver, enters, and opens the booth along with five British police officers dragged out the driver.
punches him in the mouth. "Have you made up, bastard?". Composed?
is thrown out of the bus, upset and guilty she can not talk. An agent takes the motor to the neck, the narrow band, the stage of the head with a helmet, it slams on the bike, lock the accelerator and shoot a missile through the square, round the state. It 's a moment: the bike falls, a van, a car, another bike, a carousel wheel passes sopra. Sparisce.
Mi sono distratto e ora la donna mi chiede il biglietto, spiega che quell'uomo truffava le assicurazioni simulando gravi incidenti. Un contrappasso, ma quanta severità questa polizia. Cosa succede a chi non ha il biglietto?
Sinceramente mi spiego e la controllore non la prende male, mi chiede ottanta euro, ne prende cinquanta e me ne dà quaranta di resto. Rimango interdetto, cerco di spiegare l'errore, lei mi fa zitto e capisco che è un favore.
Non ricordo niente poi, solo baci morbosi.
