III

"gentleman, let us be reasonable. When I made that promess there was no way I could predict the outcome!"
"do I look like a give a fuck, boy?" said the man with the Bronx accent, who was still standing.
"if I am going to keep my promess, I need a little more time"
A fat, bald man said, in a very deep voice: "you have one day. Now leave."
Leo left the room, almost breathless. What the fuck was he going to do now?
He was now walking down an alley, which was a shortcut to his apartment. It was a medium size place, well lit, with old but beautiful furniture. Nothing remarkable about that apartment, just a regular, boring place to crash after a days work. That day, however, Leo would not fall asleep. His mind was chaotic and rushing with a thousand thoughts at a time.

II

"-where do you think you're going, dipshit?" said one of the men. Leo stopped, his legs started shaking, and as he turned around he almost fell down due to dizziness. "-is there a problem, gentleman?" Leo said, trying to sound much more confident than he actually was. The man with the Bronx accent got up and looked deeply in Leo's eyes, as though he could read his mind. "-we ain't talkin' 'bout problems son. we're talkin' 'bout favors, and you owe us one, as far as I recall".
Leo sighed. "shit" he thought, and sat down putting out his cigarette.

I

''-We gon' set this party off right." he said, or at least that was what Leo got from the rusty voice, with an almost annoying Bronx accent.
Leo lit a cigarette, as he silently walked away from the group of men in the dimmed and smoky room.

Ruptura

Nasceu. Mas não queria nascer. O homem de branco tascou-lhe um tapa burocrático, e o nascido berrou.
O pequeno ser observou e absorveu o mundo, compreendeu-o absolutamente, sem dúvidas, sem falhas. Em meio a sua epifania, seu pensamento- pastoso e inconstante- era zeppelin. Pairava acima do Conhecimento, acima da Forma, acima da Cor, acima do Impossível, movimentava-se com dificuldade, como se estivesse sendo constantemente puxado por uma infinidade de pegajosos e espessos fios.
O voador estava imerso em substância morna similar ao magma, porém nívea e confortavelmente úmida. Um sorriso invadiu as feições sem identidade do invólucro do voador. A substância evocou as memórias de sua vida anterior: o útero.
Tão rápido quanto o pequeno fora expelido de sua desavisada mãe, o zeppelin dissolveu-se, virou visão, percepção e self-awareness. Chorou, queria voltar! sabia que havia sido real, um real líquido que escapava por entre os dedos, mas real. Não queria este mundo, tão palpável e raso, queria voltar a voar.
O nascido nunca mais voltou ao seu zeppelin, viveu a sua vida neste mundo como um espectador inerte, como se estivesse tentando voar novamente.
Morreu, no momento em que nasceu.