We're crouched behind a piece of coral. It's more likened to an orange mass of molten rock. There are buildings behind us, coarsened and gutted by a smoky war. When we turn around and look through the first floor we see pipes, a bathtub, but no bed or wall hangings. I suppose we're in battle, but it's comical or one-dimensional like a troupe of children trying to jump from rock to rock, pillow to my mother's twice-broken coffee table, hoping that the lava will not gulp them up. It's like playing Mario (before he became 3D), jumping on Moombas and avoiding canon balls with chomping teeth. This battle is not a bull running and we're not about to tip a canoe.
Every night my companions change, but only in identity. Whether it is my friend or my mother-in-law, they still function the same. One is wild, throwing grenades that curiously resemble palm-sized candy hearts. One is praying to a god that begins with an “A,” begging me to take them to safety. One is myself, always still, thinking. I suppose I am more of an observer, like a viewer in the back row, so engulfed in a motion picture that when the latina prostitute cries, my heart sinks. And when her lover pays for her freedom, I am free myself!
There is no movement of plot other than far away colored gas drifts by, never really injuring a thing, maybe overturning a pebble, or causing my friend to wimper.
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