...a deathly serenade...

darkness—A symbol (in action) of the very nature
of life, I told myself, as if an intersection. In a way I
started to hate Lucia, not for the obvious reason of
her disappearance but for the action of leaving
Tangier for London and therefore, inevitably
leaving Leila behind. The simple pleasure of her
young cunt came to me throughout the week, but
still being deeply consumed by Lucia I ignored
these thoughts or tried to. Though the image of
Rabat kept coming to me like a Helmut Newton
photograph — blue, it was all so very exotic...
206