gingatao

the gentle art of forgetting,

Once discovered, the need for the gentle art of forgetting, otherwise immortal, he said chuckling, shrugging on the long cloak Takeshi had given him and locking the door behind him. At the other end of the alley a limo was waiting but not for him. I remember the recruitment he had boasted earlier after winning at cards, watching the older boys march so straight and proud and everyone giving thanks. Was it Spain that time, a flash of silver? Or Guatamala when a flower burst sudden red? The music was long and strange and high so perhaps it was east of elsewhere, gathering the chips. Which is where we ended up anyway distort statues bleeding in sand and tank tracks winding off into the heat. Later he put the drink down on the piano. Fuck it, son. I don’t think I can face another one. He turned the corner into the street just as the limo door opened and another opportunity emerged.