Dark Metal Avalanche 

I walk into a bakery, carrying a small, unassembled table. I bend down to put it down. My eyes meet with those of a petite young woman. She tells me to stand up. We chat. She’s friendly. Her friend, a Jewish psychedelic rocker, takes my number. He does this at a distance, through a window. I go out to check he has the right number. His phone is red. The keys are inscribed with cryptic, occult, symbols. I find my number. It’s correct. 
We walk through a pile of sharp scrap metal, walkways with sharp bits sticking out everywhere. They form a slope. As we descend, the metal moves. I slide down on an avalanche of sharp, dark, metal. I pull my hands into to sleeves of my leather jacket to protect them. Others pull me up. We exit though a white door, into a white room. Those of us who survived the metal avalanche have ceramic eyes, mounted in stylised silver filigree, covering parts of our heads. The petite woman talks to me. She’s aroused, and wants to fuck me. We sit on green sofas in the white room. Music plays. There’s a tension. No one talks. Someone leaves, and others rapidly follow. Terrible rap music comes on. The scene changes. Young people kill their old rocker friend. String him up with his guitar, to the sound of 90s indie pop. Judge dread grunts at stereotypes of bodybuilders. Macho posturing. The only language they speak. 
I’m flying down a rainy northern road with PP. we talk about missed investment opportunities in the Turkish housing market. We sidestep a double decker bus, into a side road, slowly landing outside his house. Inside, he arranges new furniture, made from hand carved wood. It almost looks like the product of pleaching. I love it. He wears a check shirt, like a lumberjack. Woodenness is everything about him. 


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