Nimes

Nimes is big enough for me. I mean there are lots of arcades, supermarkets and stuff in the uptown. Cars crowd everywhere in this old damp southern city of France.

Further more, there are lots of weirdoes and zombies in these southern regions who have been living during thousands of years since Chinese emperor tackled Turkish harassment for the 248th time. These inhabitants are called Nimois.

When you're in this moldy uptown, it's like this genre of life cannot excite you before it fulfils your exotic curiosity. I get pretty far out, even in the spring sunshine.

Apparently I ain't acquaintanted with the routes. I've got the mark somewhere but I won't tell you where it is because these folks are promenading too slowly and you can stare at their movements so conscientiously to figure out each of their destinations.

These zombies are folks who have just been hit with the fallout, probably from Uzbekistan or pretty much earlier from the ancient times.

Plus some 1000 years' brain damage from Greece and Italy, a lot of the toxins and germ warfare…

Oh boy, my neurotic mentality!

So the plague also, I can smell it but I cannot precise the location because it is fluid thus everywhere. I don't really know what is going erroneous. I just see these French residents I don't comprehend. Maybe it's like they have been genetically malformed or something. It's almost like they've all got some kind of weird disease.

Four euros' business could make them run around and go insane. Plus they don't speak properly they just slur like those Marseilais, but way less fasionable.

Alas! It's bizarre. It's twisted. And these creatures are surreal. I don't know what to call them in a scientific manner, but Nimois are very dangerous. Zombies are just a superstitious term for them. They are not actually whom you know from the culture propoganda. Dead people are walking around but Nimois may as well be exactly sorted in this category.

Anyway they are a threat when you're inside Europe. I mean spiritually, it's like you are going across the wastelands it's nothing but void, or empty dunes with desert, with burned out highways, whatever. And you hear the requiem even when you digest a kebab. Ironically the tourists do have the illusion that the Nimois are happy and everything is peaceful and dynamic. They just can't see the drifting devils because the spring sunshine is too bright; they just can't hear the roaring beasts because it is too noisy in the cafés; they just can't smell the rancide sludge and filth because it is the season of enormous land of lanvender flowers in Provence nearby.

I mean it is not their fault, after all.

And you can tell from the old street lights that you'd be getting close to somewhere different: you'll see this shabby kebab restaurant.

"I'm gonna offer you this plastic bag because you are his wife, hahahahaha!" the man laughed licentiously to my girl.

Wow man! This is hilarious: Now you are talking! His exotic logic makes me excited.

I am caught, I'd say, for the first time in Nimes. But this is a Turkish man, not a French, nor a Nimois. As a far-easterner, should I be proud or sorry before you? Gee, this person understands nothing about his turpitude nor his innocence. He runs a restaurant and he is a virgin of philosophy. That's all.

This city, I mean, this town is too old to be true.


Anyway I'd been humping for a couple of days in Nimes before I retrieved the reality. I mean I started to embrace the spring sunshine elsewhere.