Valery Meynadier . The cry of vuvuzuelas by Valery Meynadier, Sunday, September 19, 2010, at 19:17. Published Gazette de Montpellier, No. 1150, 1st to July 7, 2010 "Football is loved. Why is he like? I'll tell you. Because it has no truth "replied Michel Platini Marguerite Duras Hive in the head, he pushes the padded door of his suite, suites of rooms with bathroom, kitchen, living room, connected by a dense corridor. Dead tired, he returned to his tomb, he will rise again tomorrow. Silence sizzles. What a game! It grows with great difficulty, it's hard to back down. His smile broke flat windshield a moment in the air. It reviews everything: grass yellowed by the cold, the 130 decibels of vuvuzuelas, the opposing team ... it's like to feel the loneliness, twin sister of the universe, spreading into the infinity of stars. The ball sometimes it seems so far away, the lawn so black, the public so tiny, that remains the burning of the effort he gives. The yellow card back to him, he grabbed. Then the decisive pass, goal! Scream rock. He walked on the moon.
He wraps himself in his shroud of brocade. What a room! When the Venetian mirror with its decor and inseparable silver lily hands him his face deep into his eye: a mass of scars, nose vine dead ... This is not a top athlete.
It emerges suddenly from the bedspread, he ran to open the window. He can no longer walk normally. In his dreams, he ran again, he releases the ball, fake, dribble, he dives, penalty ... His dreams mimic reality. He lost gallons of water on the stage. In the locker room, they are scarves. Buzz under his skin.
The sky is low, gray ash so heavy. And he plunged into the Indian Ocean? Subject to constant monitoring. What he eats, he drinks, her hormone levels, how time, he sleeps, how long he stays awake. His birthday fell on the public square. Soon his thoughts. That he saw in the mirror witch: a dead man. He thinks about his children, the youngest of his plays, to down the cheek of her child, my angel dust. They are trying to kill his family. Sea spray carried by the wind stole his tears. He wanted to scream. What a farce! He understands, he understands everything! The
vuvuzuelas are there to cover the screams, cries all the world ... War, orgasm, a billion condoms cover the World Cup, he must know, the cries of madness, everything is known, the cries of shame, forty thousand whores are swaying, swaying, the cries of patients: one in ten South African AIDS and its areas of trade restriction to a mile or two around the stadiums, small traders are driven out of their street and crying foul! Even the lawn will begin to cry, some stages will now be partially made of synthetic turf!
They broke his childhood dream.
Tomorrow he buys his little Vuvuzuelas and slams the door.
Valery Meynadier
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