...a deathly serenade...

vegetables, clothes and shoes. A man was
shouting at a screaming child in Maghrebi Arab
before the dusty footpath was then stomped on in
childish anguish complaint. I walked further on
and I then stood close to another bearded man
keeling over a steel heat, cooking chickpeas. I was
hoping to take in the smell, as if by some holy
chance the sensation overcame me. It didn’t and I
started to feel like the walls were closing in
instead; the speed of everything around me just
aided in an anxiety that had been on a natural
hum. I am at war with myself, I said to myself in
my head. I then begun walking a little faster
through the market, accepting that I always
preferred the night, I thought to myself: It is the
time that consists of the darker essence of life,
like a nocturnal realm it can envelope you in the
very nature of what life really consists of, so the
best things in life happen at night, the daytime is
just the time in between that rarely compensates
for the energy that is exchanged to deal with all
the antics that are thrown at you, no, the night
time is my calling: Where; the drunkards
embrace, the broken congregate, the lesser
conspire.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A Consumed Thought
When B arrived I realized he was fat. It came as a
surprise. I hadn’t noticed before this point. It
made me look at him anew. He had come all the
way to the door, using his chubby hands to knock
four times and then waited before I opened it and
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