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I remember that he did not waste one word, that Morrocan bastard brother of mine (the term ‘bastard’ used in a way only an Australian would understand).
“Long live the Legion,” he’d said, hopelessly romantic till the end, while his stomach bled.
Funny that it’s still a struggle to say his silly words, silly for some of course, but for others, in their beauty, absurd.
I still can’t cook, as in his honour I always will, because ”Marche ou crève” also means that: never give up, never, ever give up.
I miss the friendship though, in a way I cannot begin to understand: I miss the friendship.
More about the incident I am writing about here: And We Walked Until The Sun