What, still has weight? Infinity Land Press will publish The Worm by New Juche in 2021.
This man became a familiar and welcome element in my environment, and, through the charity of my gaze, took on some preternatural qualities, a kind of object saturation against the foil of the concrete and the grimy arch. Especially his face and hands assumed a lambency that began to inspire me. This unusual face and these beautiful hands began for me to associate with other distinctive and bewitching elements in that place: crisp swathes of glistening snakeskin, the concentrated reds of hibiscus petals, and the most contrived and corrupting representation of aromatic purity that equatorial nature offers the human senses — the plumeria flower.
We’d arranged to meet outside his modest dwelling just before six o’clock so that I could
make use of the setting sun. I gave him the money as soon as I arrived, compulsively, and once I’d done this, I relaxed. He gave me a cup of grass jelly and we surveyed the darkening horizon and enjoyed the last shafts of sunlight as our world drifted mournfully out of their reach. I hadn’t imagined that I would take from him anything but his face. This strange face that had developed from grotesque camera-bait into a symbol of an individual man, whom, despite being hidden to the point of not existing, and apparently so unique as to disassociate from all others who might wear the same clothes, I now felt that I trusted, and whom toward I felt a tender solicitude, and a deep sense of conviction that his choices and his methods — think of his tucked in uniform and his devoted parenting — were, forsake it all, the correct ones.