In this city, there is a man who is driving around with a bomb. He might be your driver, neighbour, boss, husband, father or drinking buddy. But, most likely, your drinking buddy. Because, he drinks. And loves his drink. And, he loves music. And dancing. His favourite song, for now, is not état-major . But, at some point, it was. He does not understand French, does not know what the song talks about, he just liked the shouting and clapping at the beginning of the song. It laid a good ground for showcasing dance skills. That time he was in love with that song, he still had the bomb with him. In his favourite drinking place, having had asked for état-major , he would dance. Sway his hips. Place his right feet there, have the hands clasped together as in some prayer, while the left feet stood rooted in the ground to give balance to the waist that would be tossed up and down as if in some dingy on a chaotic Mediterranean sea. Spectators would abound. The new ones would buy hi...
...writings and recollections; thoughts too.