We are investigating what appears to be an abandoned car. Dark blue, windows rolled down. The carpark is mostly empty on such a night but the housing building has more than several lights on, as if people were staring from their kitchens, watching us, hypnotic. Up in one of the houses, there’s allegedly, a birthday party, now paused and depressed, full of people in dark clothes. Are birthdays and funerals the same thing?
“what fool leaves the cake in a car?”
I remember the chocolate cake, creamy, possibly with strawberries and jagged slices of white chocolate, single tiered and raised between the driver and passenger seats. The logic of the open window is to keep the cake unmelted. Foolish to leave it exposed like that. The cake is now gone. A split second film in my head suggests a wild fanged dog reaching through the window, but the devouring or stealing isn’t shown. We stand around the car, owner no where, deciding on how to proceed.
Pack and leave.
A woman, impersonating a mother, packs my backpack with toiletries, white towel, not enough clothes. I inspect the bag in a sloping, unlit hallway with black doors to every side. Are the children in the nearby pool in sunlight? Memory tissues connect, this place also houses an ex-wife from an ex-life. I’ve been here New Years day, years ago, silent in the hall, remembering our flesh and sex in bedrooms. The way teh corridors are arranged also reminds me of a lawyers house where I was tempted to erotically sniff a toppled ladies shoe outside a house party. But the sunlight now hardly reaches the corridors. At a specific door with no number I am let in by people in dark corporate clothes, secret society secretaries, elite men in tuxedos, all inhuman, part of a strange world. It could be The Society of Night but more so not. The wild dog is a man in a dark blue sweater, almost the same color as the car. His hair is curly and oiled, he points with a fat marker to a whiteboard where a perfect circle, with lines and dots, is displayed: A Meta-Sigil. A Magical Banner. Memory tissues connect. I’ve been to this room, impersonating other rooms.
One: a den with drugs, prostitutes and masseuses in batik sarongs, sweating onto my topless body:
Two: a hotel room in Australia where I spend days with a woman posing as a mother.
I understand I am a stranger in this secret meeting. An implant among men mutated by bad money. How long I remain in such company is unknown. I do not even know If i made it out as the same person.
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