The Village Didn't Need A Sign, Nestled Like A Dumb Memory.

The streets were empty during the days and full at night. When the sun dropped off, music came from all directions, places packed. You wouldn't understand. Lead-singer silhouettes behind a microphone, shadows of rope and suicide. Only the locals understood and everyone was a local.

It wasn't a big or a small place, but it was there.

Strung together like a spine, the houses were shacks built from junked appliances and doors of restaurants, giving the village a look of a single line of buildings, with a light curve, ready to move.

Don't come here, okay.

They've sorted it out.