The garbage truck has turned in the fifty-scoured. The driver had to be drunk or crazy. The left wheels were raised off the ground and those on the right, supporting the full weight of scrap metal, are creaking.
Floz's car sped in the opposite direction, was overtaking a taxi at excessive speeds. From the sidewalk you could hear the music out the windows, classical music was played as strong as a rock concert. I remember thinking "that Floz is "a moment before you see the truck.
A second later it was all a screech of brakes, a splash of tires on asphalt and then, inevitably, the bang. Pieces of junk against the buildings and screams and sirens and black smoke. The truck was entered into in the car of Floz depth, like a fist, and had spit glass and metal, crush. Floz's body was compressed and then disrupted, a piece of my arm darted against, making me upset that I had just bought the coffee from Starbucks.
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