Amor meets shabu. Girlie has a happy encounter. By the end of her first week at Talent Spot, Blen was well on the way to developing a personal stage image, and by incorporating elements of performance, had established her niche in the bar. When customers entered, she would move to the front of the stage and flamboyantly wave both outstretched arms up and down to attract their attention, then make the BJ sign, and point towards the booth. When Mama signalled, she would drop her camisole and dance directly opposite the indicated customers, in choreographed manoeuvres, using her thong and the bar poles as effective props. Though business was slow, her assiduous soliciting had interested two or three customers sufficiently each evening to result in trips to the booth, and her raunchy displays kept bums fixed in seats for a second or third drink. Her performance in the Wet-T contest had impressed Blen on the mental map of desirable girls, which many locals kept in their heads, and with. She stared at the papers as if they were a palpable enemy that she could rend, tear, or kill. Her tears were hard and angry – but soft, and almost helpless. Hindsight cleared up so much, and I now know the anguish she felt as the sterile, white forms pronounced her death sentence.For millennia I lingered in the valley of death. There were no shadows in that valley, only blackness, silence, and emptiness. My mind went away again. I drifted on the smokescreen of memory, and visited myself on places and people I'd not thought about for ... well, for the rest of my life.The first sounds I heard that were not from my manufactured memories, were the sounds made by cloth sliding over cloth. The sounds may have been present for a very long time, or just a second, but I separated the sounds from those of mind, and spirit, hoarding them, because it was so novel.In the presence of sound, I rushed to feel – but there was nothing to feel. The dead have no feelings, no senses to feel with, and no.
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