read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

September 6, 2004
There was always the inevitable sense of squalor, the mounds of organic refuse and small black flies crawling about the edges of the orphans who slept sprawled at the mouths of alleyways. Then there was the heat, a constant pulsing presence somehow required, just as the mothers shouting from opened windows and the shriek of childrens' street games were inevitable, the monosyllabic cries of venders hawking their wares, roast meat on wooden skewers, mango ices, cheap trinkets and loose items of clothing spread upon tattered blankets. These are people who pray incessantly, ceaselessly muttering the many names of their gods.