Hangover

Last night was full of fire and this morning is full of unprocessed beer. We watched the branches turning to flame long into the night, and after the morning’s rainstorm the wet ash has settled like sediment in my liver and my throat and behind my temples. The DVDs at the corner kiosk read like portents of doom. Obsessed. Torturado. El Funeral de Muerte. Fracture. The Hangover. Criminal. Last Train to Auschwitz. The owner likes us. He likes that we’re Australian. Do we surf? he wants to know. Have we eaten kangaroos? Did we know the Crocodile Hunter was killed by a stingray? We shake, nod, nod. Walk back out into mud. The glare stabs us even through thick clouds. Mosquitoes come out to circle. Obsessed. Torturado. El Funeral de Muerte. The Hangover.

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