Fuego III

Nighttime mounts, as if Moscow and the snow falls, repeating
mantras, cold stares at death. It's a total shitstorm, all the
above, I thought, movies on in the background where I'd
opted for Wedding Crashers (cheer myself up a little after a
word from W...) I moved towards the balcony and started to
think about days gone by, rhymes, beats, things that brought
back an ounce of feeling. Long stares at the thing...
A day later I found myself starring in the mirror, the yellow
hue and slight charcoal Blackness of the reflection amounted
to all types of thoughts, as if I had to name all the /associates/,
consistency got me thinking however. Stick with the
associates they know about all the stuffs pertaining to what
I'm going on about. I got a voicemail, an associate calling
about where I had been before the night before. Music
playing: a crescendo of sex, something like Moroccan music,
or perhaps Algerian, though I'd settle with the thought that
the music was escaping my grasp, memories distort, fabric,
days in Northern Africa reminded me: long singular elements
of... wait a minute, I thought: that random artist guy in
Tangier was all about the warnings, they'd do this, they'd do
that... I just felt numb...
note written — 2016, Barcelona & London edited. 2019
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