We Are Made Not From Dust. I write you about those of us not made of dusts, Made from sterner stuff like
Am in a Passat now. Squeezed between five people. My phone rings, the passengers look my way. I know there’s no way I can answer the call without elbowing someone. I let it ring on, perhaps is no other person than “5549” am MTN automated ring back service. I ignore it. I listen to the underbelly of the car scraping the tarmac -like a human tapping out, giving up on the weight of living, the driver speeds on, unconcerned.