I woke up in Algiers, on the beach; sunburned; lost in translation. I incite vultures to picnic, I centerpiece an ornamental candelabra, and I laugh; laugh as I watch platter upon platter of my labors empty before my eyes. I'm sweating. I'm hysterical. No one takes notice, I begin to hand feed the birds directly from my wallet; the clothes directly off my back. This is my Ryōkan, this is the burglar that came to my hut, midnight. This is my compensation for the moonlight I couldn't sacrifice. There is sand between my toes, I stare out toward the Mediterranean and watch psychedelic tits warp atop psychedelic legs in the swirl of a midsummer's heatwave.

I syncope. The vultures feast, in Algiers, on flesh.

For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.