“An attacker. An infantryman dedicated to offensive action. A little man fights with fate. He has a mission, he must complete this task, awful. He must progress in a difficult environment. He is obliged to resist suffering. His mission is to attack to succeed. In theory one Simple plan, easy to say, very little to do but an attacker knows what awaits him so it goes on. His feelings? Ignoreable. His thoughts? Inappropriate. Stubbornness and commitment.
You need to find images, blurred colors, pixels without intensity. We have to go back there. Canada, Montreal, 27 September 1981. Gilles Villenov. It runs, continues, strikes on its shadow line. He stumbles. Many times. Drown Cheat. The first shot knocks down Arnox, who will always be happy to fight with him. Arnox, in confusion, attacked Brony. Two Frenchmen were expelled in a heartbeat. Bronnie is wearing her own uniform. Red. Friendly fire. This is war, Cicio. Things that happen.
The truth is, the pump does not seem to be completely painless. A mark, a crack, an injury to the front wing, like a large, horizontal, silver knife. Roberta. Stormtrooper Gilles holds Canada to defend his land. The place where he was born, the place where he started to fight, the place where he returned as a winner, are now treated as an unexpected hero. But in the meantime or maybe for this reason, he has something else to think about, he has miles to build on his own.
In the afternoon, it sucks. Water, a deluge. Submerged path. You can’t see anything, you just have to pull. Instead, get used to it, warn the senses, and move for the sake of Christ, otherwise you will be stolen. He knows how to do it. He learned from an early age to sink into the wall on the brink of disaster.
Snow, ice, hunger, poverty: these are its products, its life. Never missed a minute of training. Then she had the right shoes, French shoes, Michelin brand, properly laced, tight, perfect for such a bad day. Speed and time. Sensitivity.
Like a predator, like a predator. Smells every subtle variation of air, wood, asphalt air, smell. It really strikes. It continues. Because when things get complicated, every benefit increases. Hand in hand: an attitude, a lust, a duty. Attacker Villenov Gilles scrapped a thousand, ten, seconds; Takes as much time as he can. Recover, get the meter, the wounded who fell around us, those who did not, those who could not do it against him. With the soldiers in disarray, Gilles is, by nature, distracted by trials and tribulations. Yes, but it’s an attempt, half a mess.
Villanuev stumbled a second time. Against an Italian. His name is Elio de Angeles, he drives a lotus and is in trouble. Slow, damn, very slow. You have to get rid of it quickly, but there are traps in some of the slimmer maneuvers, and from this trap his rostrum, that flat and silver blade, gets another insult.
What do we have at this point? We have the competition for success that seems to have failed. We have a minimal goal of defending a platform. On the runway we have rest from the air, less water, and different colored paths. Then we have some more injuries.
The wing catches the wind in the wrong direction and bends. It was like a platform to fly; It looks like a pierced nose, turned upside down. This is the white flag business. But imagine, but think of yourself. It is a casino flag mounted on a rail. From the stands, like mountains of observation, everyone looks at him. The play unfolds as an unforgettable scene. It’s always been like this, and when it’s like this you can say: I was there.
Gilles, the battered soldier, never stops, continues, never gives up. If you look at us you can no longer see us. Yes, but he learned to run with his eyes closed. A storm, a tragedy, rule the darkness. So it has to be done, so it does. Look to the right, to the left, it has only the edges of the path. Breathe and accelerate. From the outside, a heavenly show. From the inside of that sloping Ferrari, hell. Come on come on.
Tremors, vibrations, the wind blowing the wrong way. The wing, with its magnificent and wounded wing, is detached, lost, and shattered. 63 in lap 54. 54 rounds in two hours, reducing the range distance of the battle. This is a cancellation. It’s a release. He has no weapons but he has a free field in front of his eyes, nothing else.
Gilles has no grip, balance is a thread. Nevertheless, in this dangerous range, he experiences, breathes, and sees energies as they are.
From the sofa, the wonder of a star audience, as they say now, was not then. Wet feast. Villanueva is about to fall, crumble, and die. not at all. It revives, revives and amazes again and again. E. You look at it and think: Novolary, of course, but yes, another born attacker, who lost his pieces and gained heart. You think of following him: no one wants this because you see him, here he is, while Dasio is on a wonderful path. Rhetoric and dreaming.
Attacker Villenov Gilles ends his fatigue. He did it. To do so he stunned enemies and spectators. He is the third soldier to climb the mountain. Alone. Succeeding. Sure, what do you want? Yes, Jack Lofit first; John Watson II. Liger. McLaren. They are so good, they come out like tissue in a storm.
We had something else; We are talking about something else. We’re still really talking about it. An angel, a devil, Gilles Villanuev, he took his dangers, his happiness, his land, and took the souls of each of us.
That’s when we saw all this; Only Him do we constantly remember. A little man plays while fighting. A young man – he knows, as we all know – will never age.”
Adapted from Machina.2 – “Gilles Villanuev”
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