how do you wanna face it? when the end is so close you can taste it
It’s shopping day; not much can drag me into the swell of ripe bodies and fish-spice-food-whatever else they’re selling in Haulani proper. It smells like childhood. Smells like memories better left in the past and of a place where I don’t have control. The beach edge where the Hanged Man and my little hut is is much better. Still - I need to eat, so I saddle up and put on my sturdier shoes (they protect my toes much better than my regular sandals) and head out, large bag in my hand.
First stop is the fishmongers, and he pulls out some lovely pink fish for me in exchange for a bottle of pure alcohol. So it goes with everyone I meet, trading various variants of alcohol for other things, favors written down and small things changing hands. Perhaps most importantly, I’m listening - walking slowly and blending in, listening to the gossip behind old, wrinkled hands.
It isn’t until reach the end of the market that a new stall catches my eye; it carries pretty things. And I like pretty things, I just don’t wear ‘em all that often. So I linger here, trading small talk with the lady who runs it while I peruse items I’m likely to walk away from. But hey, she doesn't know that.
First stop is the fishmongers, and he pulls out some lovely pink fish for me in exchange for a bottle of pure alcohol. So it goes with everyone I meet, trading various variants of alcohol for other things, favors written down and small things changing hands. Perhaps most importantly, I’m listening - walking slowly and blending in, listening to the gossip behind old, wrinkled hands.
It isn’t until reach the end of the market that a new stall catches my eye; it carries pretty things. And I like pretty things, I just don’t wear ‘em all that often. So I linger here, trading small talk with the lady who runs it while I peruse items I’m likely to walk away from. But hey, she doesn't know that.
