|Cyrano Is Dead (standard:Flash, 233 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Dec 15 2008||Views/Reads: 1623/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|I cannot tell you more than I did in my first interrogation about my motive for shooting Cyrano.|
I cannot tell you more than I did in my first interrogation about my motive for shooting Cyrano. I did it on a beautiful morning, in a city of brilliant people. We first met in Paris; I was wearing a cotton skirt with brown and white checks, a hat with ribbons, a silk scarf. Yes, I remember exactly. It was in a restaurant. The following day we walked in the suburbs. In the afternoon we sided up with the Seine, evening with the painters outside the Basilique Sacré-Coeur. We laughed and leaned close to one another. The next day he explained that he was leaving. A door slammed. A child was waving. I was being abandoned, passed over, swallowed up in practicalities. He was no longer a child. Reasons, he said. What reasons take a poet out of Paris? I became more detached than a beggar, wanting my life back, open to every road in any weather. He promised me that. I loved his brilliant moments of madness; I could go through them all again. I would fall again, and again into a heavy sleep on his Cimmerian shores. Our encounter was as perfect a sorrow as one could imagine. It was the faultless moment to end it. I put the pistol to his temple as he slept. My task has been lifted from me. No longer must I even think about it. Tweet
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