the same old places. narrow alleys cobbled out of chinese gravestones, the nicer, coloured ones cut carefully into narrow steps up into the home, the doors open to let air in into the dark inside, the smell of 4 o’clock, of the sun dribbling a plastic soccer ball into corners and the damp rubbing hands in the dugout.

he stands in front of the old house where his father grew up, subdivided into a pink miniature of of a wog mansion and a warteg serving cold gudeg and bright red krecek hard as bricks. he can hear the chatter of old women investigating each other, “payu? payu pira?” their great old breasts sag like the ripe, unsold mangos scattered in front of them.


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