I telegraph at daw. The water-heater mumbling: “Take care. They will cacth you sooner or later”. Things of the sort. Cachophonies of the morning. I hope you will come to see me one of these days, miss.
He wished that moment would never end, that it would be extended in time. Even today, after many years, when the memory comes back, he starts thinking that life after all, is no so bad.
Words didn’t come out exactly like he had thought. Nibbled, kneaded… Thinking of it he even mistaken the conjugation of some verbs. But on the whole, he was sure that the meaning emerged clearly… As well as the answer was clear.
If he doesn't think for a moment of nothing definite (it happens frequently) immediately came back to his mind the fatty dj's words of the night before "Enjoy Madrid". He has been walking for hours and is collecting his remaining strength, which won't be enough to carry on a conversation in his own language.
Pieces hasn't got a before or an after it's the source of a story which wriggles away. Pieces is a date scrawled in your planner's margins a feeling that you can't describe. Pieces is a frozen moment, the speedy instant of action momentarily suspended so it can recoup the dignity it generated while being lived. Pieces contains stories and also the fragments of stories.