[an unfinished tale]
Spencer Trower Mom lived in Ravenglass, in the northwest of England, where he was born in 1.947.
During his childhood, he liked to visit nearby towns, that in those years (the years of the winds) had all their streets covered in sand: Waberthwaite, Eskmeals, Saltcoats; all those sanded streets were blind witness of the Spencer legs walking by them, like a long-legged phantom.
Sometimes he licked a cream sorbet with candid prudence.
Even, some summer afternoons he dared to walk to a small city called Bootle, which is on the road to Liverpool.
... As the blue-oval pearl of the daysky passed by, in front of his eyes.
Christmases were practically rural in Ravenglass, some modern music of skiffle sounded through the speakers of the park, park that was in the centre of the town
it sounded to remind us that it was a time of joy: the dry and cold wind did cut the face skin in two.
When January came, in the winter, the snow used to fall in the form of heavy balls over the metallic roofs of the neighbourhood: Spencer Mom was there, like mesmerised observing something that he could not mind, something that was beyond: what it was?
When January came, nuts were grilled over the fire: the television did not show anything, but the streets of London in black and white: on the radio could be heard African music, often sung in some idiom with agglutinative vocables (possibly Bantu); it was the BBC overseas, Spencer Mom tuned a show broadcasted from Rhodesia, because still existed the British colonialism, and many people still used to go to Africa, looking for the gold of Transvaal and the semen of gorilla, used to cure the mononucleosis, and the excessive masturbation in women.
One day, Spencer Mom started walking toward the stars.
On the sidewalk, toward the stars.
Such a polite human kite, or perhaps like an employee of municipal office ascending by means of a transparent staircase, with his blue-France suit and necktie of municipal functionary, Spencer Trower Mom.
Walking toward the stars, Spencer Mom, to never stop Spencer Mom, and why?
We, nobody saw him anymore
Some say that they had seen him becoming progressively translucid, step by step
pellucid step by step, pristine like a vertical and long drop of detergent.
Some say that they saw him in the exact moment when he was disappearing.
The Sun of July was hitting on the sand of the streets.
During his childhood, he liked to visit nearby towns, that in those years (the years of the winds) had all their streets covered in sand: Waberthwaite, Eskmeals, Saltcoats; all those sanded streets were blind witness of the Spencer legs walking by them, like a long-legged phantom.
Sometimes he licked a cream sorbet with candid prudence.
Even, some summer afternoons he dared to walk to a small city called Bootle, which is on the road to Liverpool.
... As the blue-oval pearl of the daysky passed by, in front of his eyes.
Christmases were practically rural in Ravenglass, some modern music of skiffle sounded through the speakers of the park, park that was in the centre of the town
it sounded to remind us that it was a time of joy: the dry and cold wind did cut the face skin in two.
When January came, in the winter, the snow used to fall in the form of heavy balls over the metallic roofs of the neighbourhood: Spencer Mom was there, like mesmerised observing something that he could not mind, something that was beyond: what it was?
When January came, nuts were grilled over the fire: the television did not show anything, but the streets of London in black and white: on the radio could be heard African music, often sung in some idiom with agglutinative vocables (possibly Bantu); it was the BBC overseas, Spencer Mom tuned a show broadcasted from Rhodesia, because still existed the British colonialism, and many people still used to go to Africa, looking for the gold of Transvaal and the semen of gorilla, used to cure the mononucleosis, and the excessive masturbation in women.
One day, Spencer Mom started walking toward the stars.
On the sidewalk, toward the stars.
Such a polite human kite, or perhaps like an employee of municipal office ascending by means of a transparent staircase, with his blue-France suit and necktie of municipal functionary, Spencer Trower Mom.
Walking toward the stars, Spencer Mom, to never stop Spencer Mom, and why?
We, nobody saw him anymore
Some say that they had seen him becoming progressively translucid, step by step
pellucid step by step, pristine like a vertical and long drop of detergent.
Some say that they saw him in the exact moment when he was disappearing.
The Sun of July was hitting on the sand of the streets.
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