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In the blight of the streets of Battambang. There were no storms. There was no thunder. And there was no malaria. No secret strain. No landmines. No vagabonds. No whores. Though Sopheap sold his hand to us that night,. There was no calling out from distant degrees of horizon. No heavenly revelry:. Come capture my destruction with your lens. Come document, tourists, lossless of the West. Maybe we are secret.
No phones and so no selfies. Cameras shackled and snuck. There was no one calling our names. Potent land of the voiceless and bodiless. Secret people in secret spaces filled with wonder. A wonder without typing. Without clicking. No laptops. No tablets. No digital strata. We could not know and therefore we fizzled. Blighted holiday streets with broken parks pinched us as funnels of heat. The occasional whistling motorbike and its noise a conduit.
After the blind monk finally stopped talking in his mysterious,. In the empty spaces between their teeth,. Skip to content Home About. In the blight of the streets of Battambang where we lifted legs each moment heavier where the emptiest shadows followed us and shadows pretended sipping dripless fountains where there were the outlines of our bodies impressed upon the walls we went to see and the walls were long discarded: train station, marketplace, shopping mall we never stopped for more than five minutes.
Though Sopheap sold his hand to us that night, a dead hand he used to point out fixtures liminal under the vague stretchmarks of moonlight causing us to ask so many questions, like: how could you walk for ten days from Poipet , are you really trying to get to Phnom Penh, do you really live down on the river?
