The music stops, the lights come up and Fas-
Cination Street is turned upon its head.
We fall out, groping for something that has
happened, but everything slips away.
We pour down streets and streets
until we meet Husain, the kebab van man,
older than Odysseus and Achilles,
and who knows only year after year
of night time. He greets us as he has greeted
the passing centuries – with a smile
and a nod, he asks us what we want. We
watch the fragments of the evening dripping
from the spitting, spinning meat and mixing
with the pavement and don’t know what to say.
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