you might have to find somewhere else

like at the grounds of the old palace where he went, bare-footed by order of the guards, old and wrinkled like the trunks of the sawo trees, one day when he wanted to be away from his family and everything else that was crowding in around him. his life. the lack of. he stepped on the cold black sand, imported two hundred years ago from 60 miles west, from the old burnt palace, for better luck next time. his heels pressed hard on the sand, he wanted to leave his mark, like men always do, but the sand refused to give in. so he walked on, around the dark pendopo, stepping over the No Visitor Past This Point line when no one was looking, and he thought, "that's like giving someone the finger and sticking it up my own ass," and he laughed, quietly, as if out of respect for the watermarked angels and goddesses. the white eyes always make them look like they were blind he thought again. and as he turned, trying to make a divot with his heel and failing again, he saw an old woman with cleavage brown as chestnut and carrying a brazier of glowing charcoal like it was the most normal thing to do in the world. she looks totally ridiculous. and sweet. i want to cry. he felt the same way whenever he was in bali and having got up early in the morning walked around the streets trying to find a breakfast place that was not a continental or american and always failing, and saw pretty shop attendants in kebaya that somehow look so much sexier with the thin, brief obi like an afterthought giving sacrifice to the gods, flicking holy water with the makeshift spoon made of bamboo, doing the sembah with eyes closed like they really meant it, in that brief moment when the sun had not had time to burn away your dreams for the day you would believe in anything, wouldn't you? and then he would wish the gujarati traders or cheng ho or whoever it was had never bartered islam into this country. this is just so much prettier. i want to start my day everyday like this. and the old woman with the great brown cleavage shining like a lake under the midday sun walked past him as if nothing else but her devotion to serve the new king (but which one does she really believe in? does it matter?) mattered in this world. no, existed. he cut across the invisible track she left on the cold black sand and the tip of his nose hit the thin white cloud from the burning charcoal tailing her. he was surprised the smoke didn't burn his skin. it was just warm, and enveloped his head like a witch's spell. which made him think: she, me, those pretty balinese girls, this stupid kraton, that megalopolitan i want so much to call home, everything is so random, and everything is related, nothing is true.