August 20, 2012 (Journalist Square, Sofia, Bulgaria)

A thin cotton mesh covers the last of the bloody pulp. Served in a shallow enamel bowl. Sitting on a terrace.
- 3 tomatoes, loose and ready : haphazardly
- 1 onion, wilting : diced
- oil & salt : rationalized
- some green parsley : bushwhacked
- 500ml bottle of beer : cold

The open window hummed along distortedly at peace with its arrangement. He can smell its chromatic black. The window can see its neighbors building a fire below.

Dead noise from the room flushes him out. He steps on tiles in darkness still warm from the sun. His forearm now rest perpendicular against the railing bar - leaning out, holding gravity in a cup.

The terrace held it’s promontory as a ruin of rooftops emerged. Above the sitting trees, waiting for any slight movement to give purpose, he witnessed the stillness.

But wait wait.
Before you kill yourself again.
- answer this

Where do you feel comfortable?
- in a mess

What are you after?
- a way out

Aware that he is bobbing in open water next to the ships haul, he drinks the bottom last of gravity. He closes his eyes and heads back into the mess.

Her fingers were fishing nets breathing under the warm covers. His heart was still sore just below the surface. He could hear the traffic cut outside. A vision of his daughter and son building blocs of cities on the ocean floor emerged. He reached over for the lower flat part of her stomach and hooked it around her hip.

And in those future transmissions, displaying lost markets, your passing by at a speed to the next spot. Recalling the blurry image, he tried to sharpen its edges in the rear view mirror, of a dog becoming smaller and smaller.

His kids are growing out of their pajamas as they sleep. Their wooden beds breaking apart in the flex of weather. And across the hallway he is editing away his life, one shirt to the dumpster at a time.

But at this spot, in this market, he craves a map a framework. A way to hang his kids drawings stacked on the table, neatly arrange them on the refrigerator wall, or consolidate to the burn pile. The slant at which he pours hot water in the cup has purpose now, every move will be the last. There is no more room for weight and transport, as the limits of control are broken.

© Matthew Martin All Rights Reserved