i saw a half-dead man at the butcher shop; he ordered half a kilo chicken, with half a voice; his eyes, bloodshot, and sliced open like the chicken’s clucking throat, surveying the butcher’s knife for traces of humanity: i don’t presume he found any.
the butcher verbalized an unofficial bill of transaction: the man paid with a 100, and a 50 - he was offered a 20 in return by the butcher, who pressed a ****** fingerprint on the note, at the denomination.
the man reached for it… but retracted halfway, and said, ‘keep the change’.