Dada One

On Sunday, I found it difficult to wake up and Mo had to call my name and shake me. They were burning wood in Kalimantan. Here on this side of the border we did not eat because we wanted to go for a swim. I felt completely empty and my head hurt a little. My cigarette tasted bitter. Mo made fun of me because he said I “looked like death”. Mo wore a white suit and left his hair down. I told him life was beautiful if we weren’t all mixed up together like sea snails in a sack here. He laughed and sounded pleased. On the way down we knocked on Iskra`s door. Wood smoke crossed the whole island and almost drowned the hills with the smell of that lousy crew. The poor will burn anything. It was two weeks since Dada died.