Marco walked the streets of the night, the music blaring from a distant window, people with drinks and lit sticks in hand, some clumsy, some less drunk, some in arms and some lonely, going and coming to and fro, the singing of the moon’s adventures could be felt humming through the air, like the beating of bee wings, or the soft pulsating chambers of an airy breeze. he was one of those who lacked pleasant company, but no matter, for the time was his, the events on the itinerary undecided by he, the sole decider, and of others at any rate he had little need. the sights around were aglow, the yellows of standing lamps shedding upon facades and windowpanes, the paved and cobbled streets, the old car here and the still-wet-from-the-rain motorcycle there. roofs oft slanted, angles that tipped hats to a wanderer with no debts, the dipping of man’s structures, the engineering of entreaties, bowing buildings, yes, to his majesty. the night was one like most of the others. drinks. scouting, hunting ass. working, working, slaving for a kiss, a grab, a squeeze, a look that has some unforeseen intention, a dance that resonates, hips that continue swaying, give memory a tune to swing, a sticky dance floor with light but heavy feet, ordinary streets and where, oh, to where am I walking?how did I get here? the questions that repeat, inquiries that lose meaning as objects all persons seek, most like children whipping air at a caricature hanging from a string in the backyard of a couple that will soon hardly tolerate the presence of one another and come home anguished to know that the bed they share with the person they loved will be a cold and foreign place and what was hoped and aspired to ended up being much like anything else, disappointment, a failure, something that could not be followed through, that is, if the couple is not already there. the questions that one finds asked as they find their feet on paths, bush, brush, jungle, jumping through vines, shadows with eyes stalking a half-naked boy looking for shelter and nourishment, a hungry jaguar that may have a motherly instinct, the concrete divisions that pit people, chain ambition, schools disintegrated and history told by those who are too afraid to look in the mirror because the soul that rapes suffers metaphysical blindness, pits, snakes, demons and whispers, the doubts that circle and rise, wings that hover high, eying carrion, the feast of dead bloody dirty flesh, shards to be shared, the eating far away, on chairs and cushions while the unknown toil, toil, toil, and grind their very essence into the plastic we throw into oceans and poison with which we raise future generations. the uncertainty of his present condition, his purpose and direction, they floated into the atmosphere and mingled with the notes of salsa and merengue, reverberated off stony and uneven walls and passages for machines that take transportation and turn it into obligation, they ran and soaked his clothes, made his toes itch, his socks feel warm suddenly, the environment a chorus of ghouls, faces that made no sense. what chance did i have? the certainty of waste, the disposal of what is assigned function, be of value, be labeled by what you are and look like, and how you speak and what you believe, have a name, a name to your fortune, a home, a clothing that marks your style, be a man of this world, a social creature, one that participates in the games and trolling that other people need to continue doing what they wake up for, because we cannot be satisfied to think and know that no designed mechanism or divine creator would ever manufacture a monster so monstrous as the human being and not feel shame, the slaughterer who sleeps in his mother’s belly, the liar who slits his sister’s wrists and then beds her daughter, the villain that will let children starve and die of thirst while they fly around and fuck dumb bitches who think their ass and tits leave them empowered as they’re used and tossed around and off boats. by bimbos who think they’re men. the night’s wonders are lost to me. the ecstasy of the stars, the embrace of distant counterparts, undeniable appendages of identity, their spirits offered light but no warmth, presence but no words. a corner approached, a meeting point, and Marco turned his head, looking this way, and he noticed a young man leaning against a wall near a door. Marco’s head began to move away, to turn to perceive something else, because i’m tired, exhausted of being so used to life, so accustomed to custom, hooked on normality, lying in bed watching TV thinking about my dreams but too afraid to tell my loved ones or friends or people who i hope are friends because i never made an effort to challenge and know myself and so now the people who surround me are just shells of people with passions as frivolous and stupid as my own, the couch, the late nights eating shit and talking shit about people who don’t matter, the streets that you roam with your squad because you’re the shit and what else would you be doing god forbid reading a book that you actually like to read oh wait because you never learned to read and so i’m here in this godforsaken village where people wait on tourists and get excited because there’s a new restaurant or hostal, where the world happens to simple minds, where meal is a processing of sustenance, a feeding, a fulfilling of what is always empty, to ensure that tomorrow’s tasks are accomplished, that the rhythm of the global enterprise that funnels riches into the hands of smiling White wolves that parade their ambitions with philanthropy and flashiness reminds everyone else that they aren’t good enough for greatness. his head goes to turn, and the door opens, and out comes the head of a young girl, one who looks across the street, both ways, checks, lets the boy in, quickly now, so no one sees, and then immediately closes the opening behind him. at this time of night. what was she worried about? hiding? who are they and what are they doing? Marco found himself thinking, pondering, realizing, standing and no longer walking. mystery is around me. i just wasn’t looking.