Morgan Meis in Image:
A little old man came out of a fabric store and lit a stick of incense. He had a pronounced lower lip, which dangled more than a foot from the bottom of his face. He shook and brandished his wondrous lip and the young men around him trembled and approached. He held his left hand low and made a gesture with his palm toward the ground and shook his lip once more. The young men scattered back into the store. Then he spoke some kind of offering, a prayer to the sky above. Then he blew his nose and went back inside.
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The one dog was chasing the other dog. Both dogs were a mangy wreck, ribs visible beneath taut skin, yellow eyes. But the one dog was chasing the other dog … then he stopped … and the other dog looked back at him with suddenly sad eyes like, “hey, why’d you stop, man? … that was incredible … that was the best thing we’ve done in years … that was a dream.”
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He was crossing the street, expertly dodging a series of crazed Tuk Tuk drivers and just missing a large, dusty bus. His sweater was amazing, bold horizontal lines of green and orange. He was not wearing any pants, but his sweater was fucking amazing.
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