doesn't really matter

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Inviato da: marcello bacci il May 13, 2002 at 09:58:24:

The date on my watch changes at noon. It doesnāt
really matter: I wake up around that time,
anyway. Itās raining. Itās Wednesday. Itās
Bangkok. The Chinese guy gave me the ticket and
1,000 USD. Iāll have the rest at the airport. I
walk out on the street, order myself a soup while
I watch two whores getting happily drenched by
the rain. 5,000 dollars. To get on the wrong
plane. I have a vision of myself pissing my pants
in front of the Thai cops, and suddenly I donāt
feel like soup anymore. The Chinese guy says itās
political. The US embassy in Bangkok denies him a
visa, but, if he gets on American soil, they
canāt refuse him asylum. Iāve got a ticket to LA,
heās got one to Phnom Penh: in the international
area of the airport we swap boarding passes, then
we get each on the otherās plane. Today, at 5:40,
when thereās just 10 minutes between the two
flights. Easy. As easy as getting death, in case
the guyās political views include bombs or
heroin. The two whores call out to me; ask me to
buy them lunch. One of them is quite tall for a
Thai: almost as tall as I. I invite them over to
my table, exchange three words and they get the
picture: Iām not their typical Western tourist.
Itās one oāclock. Are they keeping an eye on me?
If I were the Chinese, I would do so. The whores
suggest we go for a fuck. I visualize myself
depilated, getting into the tall oneās dress.
Over that sheās wearing a hooded jacket: I could
just slip out of the hotel disguised as her, and
get the hell out of here. No planes. I can re-
sell my ticket on Khao San Rd., and reach the
border by bus. From Phnom Penh I can fly
anywhere, via Sāpore. I wake up again, much
later. The whores are sleeping in my bed. Itās
7:30. It isnāt raining anymore.

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