but i stop, my hands clasped tight on the back of a plastic chair, my feet burning criss-cross dunlop pattern into the wet earth, and my mind takes overexposed pictures of a man asleep, or is he dying?, on a kerb with the smell of dead rats and yesterday’s bananas, a girl vomiting just-digested fried noodles, the bok choy leaves still green and the stems paler, a boy pouring zam zam water on a quarter schooner of smirnoff, the newest cocktail for infidels like him. what do you think of the ectoplasm rising out of his wet hair? her mouth shiny from vomit? the dead man’s hand propping up his face? is this spirit photography or photography of? i go and i stop. and i go again. tell me why i always arrive late at the limit of understanding. stop the usher from telling me, go home, there’s no seat left for people who rush only to be on time.
Speed of Lite