Pierre Sendero: Waltzing

The moon shone through the clouds like a dying candle dripping wax over Granada's potholed streets. Beneath it a song of ex-patriots, international students, others with a dime to waste wailed on and on about their respective consequences in a drunken tune the privileged couldn't hear. And in the shadows stood the whores and the crackheads providing backup, snapping their fingers, blowing kisses, whispering, hissing. An audience of colonial architecture wiped the tears and the sweat from its face in helpless silence. And there I was, Pierre Sendero, out of cigarettes, out of patience, out of words, wishing something would end this charade and put all of us out of our misery.