a fiesta of charms

Perhaps I was guilty, but that wouldn’t stop the war, I thought.
No these things happen because they are meant to happen, I was
about to say, but I didn’t. Instead I picked up a book on the
Cold War and wafted through a few sentences. You won’t get
any clues from that, moving towards the balcony to start
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA smoking as I mentioned...
...Fernand motioned around the edge of the balcony
playing with the tip of his black turtleneck mouthing the words
illusory ambush. A fly wafted in and out of gaze, like a world
onto itself. Nathan’s right… the necessity to structure things as
if a baby is very needed in such a sick and twisted abstraction of
a war, if we can even call it a war, moving hand from railing to
turn around and put the ashes out against the wall as right hand
cupped sizeable breasts that were sitting in a tight fitting red
blouse. Eyes as if a cage in one, a bird in the other...
...The previous week Al had mentioned that perhaps
entertaining ourselves be of utmost importance, right hand
wrapped around the top of the black turtleneck and eyes sat
high in their sockets. I mentioned that it was perhaps time we
dispersed as we were being watched. Sessions of time, sessions
of seasons, sessions of thought...
...Soon the living room was occupied with these thoughts
that can only be appreciated from the inside of this cranium?
and Maria. She was standing at the entrance to the living room
watching Elza climb the wall and move away. Her hands against
her top lip and eyes sauntering a heated beauty. Why do you
look at Elza like that, hips swayed to the left caressing cream
lounger’s arm. I didn’t know what to say, as words amount to a
futility, I thought. As the moment just too constipated to
negotiate any real ideas surrounding any such thing. I said
something to the degree of Elza being a personification of the
meaning of our group in political terms, but it fell on deaf ears
as Maria could smell the contradictions. The loose strands of lust
emanating from actions befitting of a war on to themselves...
...A personification sounds like claptrap, sitting up from
the cream lounger and turning around as if figuratively. I sensed
a mutiny beckon, as strands of neck hair sat on edge and the
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