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The figure of pawschien walking ahead of me in the heat-haze jacket over his shoulder in the Sunday dock-side quiet cavernous empty warehouses blowing metal thunder and contorting under the sun and the bay beaten like a feline coat of steel. He stumbles in the sand of slaters beach and turns smiling. He's a plain guy, black hair down like a thatch white teeth glistening black eyes smiling, Born in the old town grew up in the streets, know nothing of his past but have a vision of him
younger with a desperate face, blade jumping in his hand like a snakeknife. Don't know where that comes from. I follow him.
His hometown was built wooden and tall and as the dusk fell the streets became paths in a forest... light bulbs swinging in the fluted air of aviary hill, great cages alive with honey coloured birds and song like the warbled sadness of a lullaby. Walking on a thousand years of eggshells.
I take a draught of cold beer from a clouded glass and look around the room... Pawschien talking with brothers...the men have self-made
tatooed grids on their forearms in which there are sanskrit letters. They tell me all that they know is the obvious and that if I stay with them, maybe I will learn it too.
Suedehead girls with grey eyes and clear skin,one has a crescent scar on her cheekbone, she looks at me with an air of smiling anticipation
as though she's expecting me to recognise her at any second.
Something turns inside me like a tickling thirst... others are watching me too, same expression, then look away laughing, shaking heads...it's OK,
Back in the streets the scent of the human night seems to hold me, steps muted by onion skins. Old women sleep curled in the roots of houses, coiled around bales and bundles of fresh herbs and babies.
Walking the wooden tunnels out of town all I can think is. Remember your way back here-As in the darkness all has vanished. Remember your way back here.