They return to the park in the evening. Dirty, pale, scurry-eyed, claws digging into mud, heads thrown back, limbs arabesque, someone gasps across pale fires gyrating atop metallic poles in the thick of the night. The dirt is as thick as the fog. The winter chimes in the bones pricking out and the animals get butchered in the stables in their own piss and froth. At the junction of the alleys choked with overflowing drains and stink and wrapper, a few men stagger drunk, screaming obscenities. The pitch is no feat at night. Wails jump no meridian.


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