Michael

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Michael was dead in France for four days, for three in England, where news travel a little slower. While his best friend phoned every hospital and police station in Europe, while his mother checked her wardrobe to see if she was in need of some new black clothes, Michael was between the tights of a blonde little Spanish girl, with his cellphone smashed in the street, his pockets empty and a stomach full of beer and tapas, very much alive, very much not giving a fuck.

He resurrected, with no hurry, only when he finally got lent enough money to cover the fare of  a bus ticket back home, where we arrived as a stranger, he had to knock at the door, and then duck to escape all the hugs, and the yelling, and the kisses, and the punches, and the news that he was once again homeless, jobless, penniless and loveless.

Being alive of course, comes with a to-do list, a past and Argentinian friends who will tell you that they won’t hug you until you take a shower. And Michael went to sleep that entire year dreaming about the magical, glorious time when he was dead and how it was the best time of his life.

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