Life, or somethink like it.

The long winding street smelt of yellow sunshine, like the one from fables; of burnt ochre, pink buttons and human discontent; of smells limited by perception, euphoria and a little baby girl; it smelt of the road I've walked a million times in the last two years. It smelt of electricity, marital disputes, of the pentecoastal church, of the last christmas and the last hope; it smelt of the chinese food at chinese prices; it smelt of my armpit, its past, present and future, that of the street, not of my armpit. It smelt of the big brown teddy bear, of the brownie points scored under the teddy; of the underwear flung listlessly over it in times of passion, of the teddy's dark brown eyes, of memories. A young woman in corduroy trousers and petite breasts was looking at the sling across my shoulder. It must've been a pretty site - an otherwise healthy man robbed the use of his right hand. I wonder how she'd feel if I read her the poignant poem that sagawa wrote when he butchered his lover. I wonder if she'd pity the butchered lover or the poignant sagawa. She wrinkles her pretty nose and dabs it with her left hand. She's a simple woman, this one; the type that makes you wonder if they're tortoise all the way, or corduroy all the way if it pleases you. The girl moves on, the street doesn't, imbibing the hamsanadam trickling down from the gauzed window.Gauzed windows let the sunlight in and trickles harmony and incense odour out. I bet the dealer wouldn't have told you this, but it does. One can't stay content near gauzed windows. It sucks your happiness away onto the streets and gives it to young women in corduroy trousers who seem quite happy already. It trickles hamsanadam out, but it probably wouldn't let out suba panthuvarali or muhari, stifling it inside the room. Should try it out sometime.Regiplex gauzed windows. Traps sadness. Fucks your happiness.