Small story, with no particular meaning or purpose: D. Place but here is
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fanfic_italia . two in the morning the bus makes its last run, via Gosford Street and picking up the lost wandering souls that still roam the London fog. After this step the streets remain immobile, inhabited only by night.
The young Dietrich Von Krantz fixing the dark expanse of damp stone, on which the wheels of the bus had just slipped into the void to continue the way flat and bored. In the dark.
Void. The appointment of Dietrich has just ended. The air firm stride and metal in his ears, staring into the darkness. The long dark hair disheveled and dripping with humidity and sweat. Not dew. The cry of the stars shun the grotesque, and Dietrich tonight is like a son of the Wunderkammer of the grotesque.
Big Ben says it's one o'clock at night. Always sure of himself. Dietrich departs the dark velvet of the sleeve and nervous glances at the hands of silver. Do you agree with Big Ben.
"Dietrich Von Krantz?" Hoarse voice, the scratch of claws on basalt.
"Yes"
A man with a cylinder, dressed in the fashion of the Victorian gentleman.
Dietrich follows the man. Shiny black car. A metal hand that invites him. Anxiety. Anxiety. Fear.
"How beautiful you are, Mr. Von Krantz." Fluty voice, and Essence of mauve silk imports.
"Do not you tell me why I have called lorsignori right now."
"Why the chimes of the bell echoing in the blank windows of the man without eyes." A needle, strong hands that shake Dietrich. Dullness. Nothing.
dozens, metallic faces looking at me. Closes his eyes. Gods, where are they? I open my eyelids. Automata have the valves in place of the mouth and hang from the ceiling by cables tied to iron, like puppets inert. I get up, a tall, narrow door, designed by Van de Velde. In the darkness a noise, distorted wail of forgotten instruments. An obsessive sculpting a stroke descending scale. Sull'oblio vertigo.
Avanzo. One step, stroke. Another step, stroke.
"Is anybody there?" My hands grope in the avalanche of ink breathable looking for a foothold.
"No."
"So who are you? What brought me here?"
"Who is it?"
"I first asked me who you are!"
"I am Francis Picabia, but she does not know who he is. Oh Shut up. The feel."
The chirp becomes more strong and insistent, and suddenly a hundred light bulbs turn on. Turns off. Up again. In light of the room intermittently reveals her languid countenance absurd crooked walls, ceiling bars. I see more angles walls.
"The claustrophobia is the fear of the infinitely small, if a man were to be flexible and scalable there would be no secrets," says Picabia. I looked at him astonished, and he returns with piercing eyes.
"Beware the spy in the cab, please!"
raise my annoyed voice. "But who says?"
"Do you see that opening in the floor? A staircase takes you out of here."
not want to spend one more minute with quell'impagliatore fake monkey, and somewhere, hidden in an alcove, a rhythm of drums as primordial presses. No, no drums, they seem more mice mocking hidden in the wall, which in synchronous beat the small claws on the wood.
go down the spiral staircase in a hurry, rustling the flaps of his jacket. I remember the heroes of the myth down to Hades. "Uphold me, chthonic abyss."
A lounge lit by large parabolic arcs extends in front of me. Ah! But there are people sleeping under the windows! It 's like a hearty meal after the guests had left to Morpheus to dispose of the food, wine, laughter. But at the center of the room there is a table. There is a Large Glass.
"And 'The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even" As if he had just escaped from the floor, a man with a bowler hat indicates the Large Glass.
"I know him, but I do not understand! What's it all about?" I had to meet a certain Dietrich Von Krantz. "
"What to say that he does not understand? The bottom is the realm of the bachelors, demiurges matter. In the upper house, the bride, heavenly and perfect machine, which breathes effortlessly the Trinity. "
" Just tell me where is this Von Krantz, by God! "
" Gosh How long nervous, take the door behind her, and down the stairs. Oh, and look to the spy in the cab! "
" What the hell is this light? "But the man with the bowler hat has disappeared. Or perhaps he was already asleep, with moccasins well placed next to the carpet guilloche.
Not bad. Beyond the door and down the scale there is what seems to me the silent corridor of a hotel. One of the hotels mature not exactly luxurious, but inhabited by murmuring cabinets and flannel sheets ready to welcome families of small bankers. Thirteen
. Fifteen. Winds. Twenty-three. The doors are all closed. That woman. The woman that stares back from the property room.
Now I feel a pimp and danceable music. In the end I find myself at the reception of caparisoned walnut and red cloth.
The soft light of lamps, wall worries me. Moths flickering. There is an eerie silence, broken by a few feeble squeak. Behind the reception desk there is none.
The eye looks from the lock. The nails touching the metal handle. Arts scarred.
Silent, dozens and dozens of metal cables clinging to my jacket. Launch a cry of surprise. An acute stridor rises out of the room. The ceiling seems to fall on my head. Voices murmur, louder and louder, increasingly, in the nerves. Dark. The light in the cabin. The spy. The spy. The spy.
The leaf of a plane tree is bent, a drop falls from its peak. Does not infringe on the wrought iron railing, but on the cheek of a young man slumped down on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of a house in Gosford Street. The young man opened his eyes and sees only a puddle. Of frivolous items like springs forget come to his ear. With difficulty the young man stood up to see a bunch of flashy hat coming towards him.
"Sorry, lovely ladies, I'm looking for a certain Dietrich Von Krantz, but do not know how I ended up here, "said the young man, addressing the women up like chickens thoroughly fashionable hats that hide under the multicolored.
truccatissimo A face to hide and powdered wrinkles up and looks surprised wet young.
"But Dietrich, what do you say? You feel bad? "The other wives flirtatious glances and talking in the young among them.
" What are you doing here? You had an appointment an hour ago? Hurry up and take the bus to go home, you know it's the last race, right? "A taxi stopped and greeted the women rise Dietrich.
You can not. I look thrilled hands, petrified. Dietrich Von Krantz's me! Where have I been?
Nowhere. Dada.
Dietrich remains motionless staring at the last bus leaving. Under the light of a sleepy fog lamp decorated the night pants. The darkness hides behind the street corners.
The young Dietrich Von Krantz fixing the dark expanse of damp stone, on which the wheels of the bus had just slipped into the void to continue the way flat and bored. In the dark.
Void. The appointment of Dietrich has just ended. The air firm stride and metal in his ears, staring into the darkness. The long dark hair disheveled and dripping with humidity and sweat. Not dew. The cry of the stars shun the grotesque, and Dietrich tonight is like a son of the Wunderkammer of the grotesque.
Big Ben says it's one o'clock at night. Always sure of himself. Dietrich departs the dark velvet of the sleeve and nervous glances at the hands of silver. Do you agree with Big Ben.
"Dietrich Von Krantz?" Hoarse voice, the scratch of claws on basalt.
"Yes"
A man with a cylinder, dressed in the fashion of the Victorian gentleman.
Dietrich follows the man. Shiny black car. A metal hand that invites him. Anxiety. Anxiety. Fear.
"How beautiful you are, Mr. Von Krantz." Fluty voice, and Essence of mauve silk imports.
"Do not you tell me why I have called lorsignori right now."
"Why the chimes of the bell echoing in the blank windows of the man without eyes." A needle, strong hands that shake Dietrich. Dullness. Nothing.
dozens, metallic faces looking at me. Closes his eyes. Gods, where are they? I open my eyelids. Automata have the valves in place of the mouth and hang from the ceiling by cables tied to iron, like puppets inert. I get up, a tall, narrow door, designed by Van de Velde. In the darkness a noise, distorted wail of forgotten instruments. An obsessive sculpting a stroke descending scale. Sull'oblio vertigo.
Avanzo. One step, stroke. Another step, stroke.
"Is anybody there?" My hands grope in the avalanche of ink breathable looking for a foothold.
"No."
"So who are you? What brought me here?"
"Who is it?"
"I first asked me who you are!"
"I am Francis Picabia, but she does not know who he is. Oh Shut up. The feel."
The chirp becomes more strong and insistent, and suddenly a hundred light bulbs turn on. Turns off. Up again. In light of the room intermittently reveals her languid countenance absurd crooked walls, ceiling bars. I see more angles walls.
"The claustrophobia is the fear of the infinitely small, if a man were to be flexible and scalable there would be no secrets," says Picabia. I looked at him astonished, and he returns with piercing eyes.
"Beware the spy in the cab, please!"
raise my annoyed voice. "But who says?"
"Do you see that opening in the floor? A staircase takes you out of here."
not want to spend one more minute with quell'impagliatore fake monkey, and somewhere, hidden in an alcove, a rhythm of drums as primordial presses. No, no drums, they seem more mice mocking hidden in the wall, which in synchronous beat the small claws on the wood.
go down the spiral staircase in a hurry, rustling the flaps of his jacket. I remember the heroes of the myth down to Hades. "Uphold me, chthonic abyss."
A lounge lit by large parabolic arcs extends in front of me. Ah! But there are people sleeping under the windows! It 's like a hearty meal after the guests had left to Morpheus to dispose of the food, wine, laughter. But at the center of the room there is a table. There is a Large Glass.
"And 'The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even" As if he had just escaped from the floor, a man with a bowler hat indicates the Large Glass.
"I know him, but I do not understand! What's it all about?" I had to meet a certain Dietrich Von Krantz. "
"What to say that he does not understand? The bottom is the realm of the bachelors, demiurges matter. In the upper house, the bride, heavenly and perfect machine, which breathes effortlessly the Trinity. "
" Just tell me where is this Von Krantz, by God! "
" Gosh How long nervous, take the door behind her, and down the stairs. Oh, and look to the spy in the cab! "
" What the hell is this light? "But the man with the bowler hat has disappeared. Or perhaps he was already asleep, with moccasins well placed next to the carpet guilloche.
Not bad. Beyond the door and down the scale there is what seems to me the silent corridor of a hotel. One of the hotels mature not exactly luxurious, but inhabited by murmuring cabinets and flannel sheets ready to welcome families of small bankers. Thirteen
. Fifteen. Winds. Twenty-three. The doors are all closed. That woman. The woman that stares back from the property room.
Now I feel a pimp and danceable music. In the end I find myself at the reception of caparisoned walnut and red cloth.
The soft light of lamps, wall worries me. Moths flickering. There is an eerie silence, broken by a few feeble squeak. Behind the reception desk there is none.
The eye looks from the lock. The nails touching the metal handle. Arts scarred.
Silent, dozens and dozens of metal cables clinging to my jacket. Launch a cry of surprise. An acute stridor rises out of the room. The ceiling seems to fall on my head. Voices murmur, louder and louder, increasingly, in the nerves. Dark. The light in the cabin. The spy. The spy. The spy.
The leaf of a plane tree is bent, a drop falls from its peak. Does not infringe on the wrought iron railing, but on the cheek of a young man slumped down on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of a house in Gosford Street. The young man opened his eyes and sees only a puddle. Of frivolous items like springs forget come to his ear. With difficulty the young man stood up to see a bunch of flashy hat coming towards him.
"Sorry, lovely ladies, I'm looking for a certain Dietrich Von Krantz, but do not know how I ended up here, "said the young man, addressing the women up like chickens thoroughly fashionable hats that hide under the multicolored.
truccatissimo A face to hide and powdered wrinkles up and looks surprised wet young.
"But Dietrich, what do you say? You feel bad? "The other wives flirtatious glances and talking in the young among them.
" What are you doing here? You had an appointment an hour ago? Hurry up and take the bus to go home, you know it's the last race, right? "A taxi stopped and greeted the women rise Dietrich.
You can not. I look thrilled hands, petrified. Dietrich Von Krantz's me! Where have I been?
Nowhere. Dada.
Dietrich remains motionless staring at the last bus leaving. Under the light of a sleepy fog lamp decorated the night pants. The darkness hides behind the street corners.
