Near the tall building that looks like a nugget of shit, a car burns out of control. The flames wave wildly. Very flamboyant. Like a weird peacock. This takes place directly opposite a supermarket that was once a school. I think my cousin went there when he was tiny, and I was slightly less weird. Back in the day, the tall building was home to the old council offices. In my dad’s youth, he witnessed someone plunge to their death after jumping from the top. In a town like any other on a day so few will remember, a man’s life became memory. And what is a memory, anyway, other than the myth of what we know was real but is real no more. I wonder what he thought of as he plummeted to the ground? Was it the loving arms of his grandmother and how she’d cradle him whenever he was poorly as a kid? Was it the woman who broke his heart and the vision of her with another man? Or was it some strange asinine thought that randomly crept into his mind seconds before it split like a watermelon? I’ve most likely walked the spot where he hit a thousand times. How strange to think that where his life ended, mine has meandered more times than I care to recall. The flames from the car sweep around the locks of my hair, and as I watch from the other side of the street, I smile at how trivial it all is. There’s no way of knowing how the fire started. Probably arson, but could’ve been electrical. The flames rage with no sign of diminishing. The roads about me flow like gloopy blood through the scrunched arteries of a fat, tory pig. Stepping out of the supermarket, a warring couple shout and scream about something irrelevant. They, too, are pigs. We’re all pigs, really. Rolling in the shit of modern life.