rome (& taormina)//two dueling images, filmfictions that prey on me:

1. the perfect murder, the suited man, shaved glass in the omelette. i believe this from alfred hitchcock presents. oh my, good evening.

2. the perfect outlaw, breaks the bottle over the bar and pours the whiskey down his raspy throat and stubbled neck. hoo-wee!, good night.

so, when i bottleopenerless attempt to open my big peroni in the park and the glass top breaks off (a-fucking-gain!), with possible whisper glass tendrils waiting gleaming terribly possibly within, well then what then do i then do?

ey?