Saturday, January 22, 2011

Thousand: Two Hundred Sixty-Three

whispers. The pigeon blinks, turns its head one way then other, then settles down on the roof of the Maserati, while Samuel rages up and down the block punching parking meters. A soft spiritual rain begins to fall. Samuel drops to his knees again, gasping. Then he jumps up and rushes over to the coffee bar and demands a triple cap latte. The barista holds up his hands, shakes his head. No, senhor, no. An alarm goes off. It’s one of those old fashioned bank alarms, isn’t it? The insistent tapping of metal hammer against metal bowl. A car alarm

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