About cats, men and writing

A warning.
This post is different from usual.
I hesitated a lot before publishing it.
He speaks of the unpleasant side of life.
Years ago I wrote this piece. They are direct, instinctive and without filters.
About me my cat. They are allegories and are written without mediation,
They are absolute, mediated by deforming and protective mirror metaphor.
As the mythological Perseus shield. Sometimes life puts you in front of situations like Medusa.
You can not fix it directly because it would paralyze you, it destroys.
You have to deal with a lopsided look.
This post tells me and Romeo, and the big sleep.

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He remembered the dawn of the day before.
The beach usually placid and motionless was dotted with wrecks, a tidal wave of men put down arms frantically rifles submachine guns on the sand.
He saw them fumble on strikers, bend pipes, flooding the compressors of the machine guns and engines, shell casings and ammunition to throw at sea.
He traveled between them quietly rippling the still air of grim and stolid resignation.
He first stopped at a young, very young boy.
Still, in the middle of the chaotic dance, eerily coagulated in that nonsense.
It seemed to have fallen from heaven, that boy.
One, blinked his eyes as if to make sure that Blacks were not an apparition confused, uncertain in the dawn a mirage. He reached for the man.
He wore a tattered camouflage jacket with gray-green corroded by sweat and the sun kept the bare ribs rippled from his chest, the pants held up by a rope and wrinkled blacks boots.
He tested the camouflage jacket, ribs, nerve arms. He decided that it was true.
At that point, everything was true and everything was fake.
The look of the young man fell down at the beardless chin. They saw the tears, unexpected, unaware.
Blacks took his hand.
“You do not die here”
Blacks put the knife on the palm and closed his fingers around the handle.
“They will all die”
The boy stared at the knife mottled with red, then Blacks.
“We were told that they will send us home”
“No”
Once again, the eyes of the guys fell down, empty, moribund.
“We were told that they will send us home”
“You have to fight!”
The boy repeated stolidly: “We were told that we send you home”
The knife fell to the ground. The boy did not move.
“We were told that we send you home”, he stammered.
Then he was silent.
Blacks picked up the dangling boy’s head.
He fixed his eyes, empty sockets.
Blacks understood.
“Help me”, whispered the wind from the sea.
Blacks gave him a gracious retreat.
He went through the flood of strikers, rods, machine guns and engines, men resigned and hopeful.
What was that guy light, dry and sinewy arms of Blacks not even flickered once.
It seemed to have fallen from heaven, that boy.

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