The Executioner smiles under the hood. What filthy layer of canvas is not the commitment made at the time of his own style. It covers the face of the Assassin, but insolent and lewd, does not reject the motion of facial muscles to contract and he leaves. The people knows it, sees it, he hears it. Too busy moving in other, more personal commission, feels the joy of death imposed by the iron. Then it stops even the smallest production of human beings and gives a performance as exciting as cheap. As always, a few minutes earlier than scheduled time. The sun, feel it, even if I have to focus inevitably paved the heavy, dirty, warm and polite is the eight in the morning. The same one that lights up the sky of the best memories. There is no bitterness in the execution nor condemnation, nor injustice nell'accanimento, the sacrifice is only natural number between the numbers. The culmination of the punishment waiting is bad, given for days. Days of idleness and tremendous pain. In too many books we read more and forgiveness granted, just before the last breath. E 'in this way that man illusion of making sense of wrongdoing, the incident, every single day of punishment. In the last look at the sky, barricaded in tears under the eyes, and fair expression together in fear, is concentrated around the craft art of living, acting. Comes strongly to the sky, lama swollen chest and a hissing whisper of joy. Falling, with its own door, the weight of freedom, the final one. In a gesture of relief neutral impact the pen, falls, blinked, looked at me with the boss look bad. Just passed the hour of pay. With hat in hand I leave the office. We hope in the good sleep tonight. Wake up at dawn tomorrow, tomorrow we lead.
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