stop it!

the problem is my obsession to find beauty in ugliness. it's evil. more evil than ugliness itself. i'll tell you something, simply, a story, or just a footnote in a bigger story? i don't know but it's like this: outside ak.sa.ra., drizzle, light enough for me to walk under it, on the pavement, wet black, a family of seasonal scavengers, oh i don't have to tell you then, it's a few days before lebaran, the dad building pyramids of aqua glasses, the mom resting with both legs spread in a v in front of her, their child, a little balita girl in a peasant dress two sizes too small for her, the hem of the dress barely covers her ass, playing with two black stones, one in each hand. she strikes a conblock. thwack! the stone jumps out of her hand, as if the conblock, for the duration of that brief thwack! acted as conduit for the electricity of the earth, the electricity of the sad reality that she was and they were a homeless bunch of scavengers sheltering under browning plastic the dad has tied between the cart he's been lugging all day, his daughter standing in the back looking at all the traffic behind, the only comfort she gets from the cold of metal lining where she rests her chin, and a sick-looking grey tree he hopes doesn't fall when the storm hits? i don't know. whatever strikes the child, makes her cry. her dad, calmly, takes the tops off his pyramids and rolled them on the conblocks, towards her, to play with.