Taichung Spring

It’s getting hot.  The smells are getting thicker, heavier.  Street dogs dig their claws into exhaust coated coats with the staccato rythm of a Billy Cobham press roll.  They’d sweat if they could.
The world appears on my television and it looks frightened, confused…on the rusted razor’s edge of doing something irretrievably stupid.  I have a strange and guilty desire to sit back and watch.  Global schadenfreud.

Vado Concubitus Per Vestri


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