Wednesday, December 3, 2008

superstitions

Then the footsteps began. He thought it was the neighbor's cat, pacing endlessly back and forth, scrambling under tables and onto bookcases; they shared a wall, noises of that sort could pass through during the stillness of night. But the patter of feet was attended by scurrying, a scattering, rhythmic climbing sound, and then the smell.
The slightly sweet, rank smell of decay, accompanied by more scurrying. Squirrels had burrowed between the walls, and one had obviously not survived the relocation. The stench permeated everything, everywhere, and was inescapable. The landlord shrugged, said it would eventually go away, but between the constant scattering noises of feet and the fear of electrical wires spontaneously catching fire and the saturating smell of death he felt as caged in his apartment, spartan though it was, as he felt trapped in a diorama of Hades behind the butcher counter at work.



reading Literary History of Persia, the poetry of Attar

weather uncertain