I like to personify inanimate entities: i’ve told you the love story between Peace and Progress, but today it’s not gonna be about love. Violence sits at a bar counter, after an hard day at work.

He has drunk too many gin and annoys a group of girls waiting for a table with his mumbling rumblings.
His wet words slide like condensation from his lower lips and fall into the sticky reamins of the daily services, while his body makes mazy arches that give seassickness.

Evening clients watch the performance from an audience full of prosecco and campari, with indignation and laughs, but these looks do not affect his carousel. The grease on his fingertips, collected by digging a chips bowl, reflects the cold light of the room and contrasts with the black silhouette stuck under his nails.
The elegant suit seems to have been the epicenter of a (h-)eart(-h)-quake and the tie recalls the pose of a middle east contorsionist.

“Another one” he exclaims, sublimating his collins glass to a trophy, as the ice rattles with the regularity of a time bomb.  The barman refuses, and the explosion floods the room. The glass shatters on the ground, the stool is thrown backwards while deafening barks hurts the group of beauties. Violence is dragged to the door and thrown onto the sidewalk. As a gift, he also receives the stamp of a sole, imprinted a little on the shirt and a little in his soul.

He gets up, while the ange and resentment brooded open, giving life to a concert of infernal peeps.
He sets off, looking for another counter to harass himself.

By Antonio Floriani

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