The man that commits crimes decided to park the car several blocks from the bar/this decision had been impulsive/as he walked towards the bar/he could hear echoes of his own steps as the only noise being produced on this Suday/to the distance there was a hiss, which is found in every major city in the world – a machine that is alive: close to him, however, the world that encompassed the warehouse district/was silent and solemn and the air was gray from heavy mist and as the man that commits crimes stretched his hand above his head/he touched the bottom of the clouds that covered the city and both the clouds and the man that commits crimes moved in the same direction/and as the clouds touched the ground they mixed with the intermittent wind gushes and created rolling/swirling bursts of magic that both cleared the air and blocked his view/and in the magic of one of these moments/within a brisk breeze mixed with dancing clouds, she emerged wearing a vivrant red silk Chinese dress that danced with the wind around her/she then walked to his right, crossed the street and lost herself behind a large brick building // the man that commits crimes ran to catch up with her/ but when he reached the street corner, the thickness of the fog prevented him from finding her again and the only proof he had that she had really been there/was the leftover aroma of a perfume he had once admired at a Paris perfumery that was owned and managed by an old Chinese woman with a wrinkled face that hid her eyes behind drooping eyelids and whose smile hid the loss of her teeth/but who stared at him with great intensity
Short Stories
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