You stop and take the world in, a figure jittering on PAUSE. Nobody looks up. Nobody asks why you're here. Nobody waves.

You stop and take the world in, a figure jittering on PAUSE. Nobody looks up. Nobody asks why you're here. Nobody waves.

A hundred conversations blend into one -- a slow, warm river carrying you nowhere in particular.

All around, movement clings to structure. Sightlines, bottlenecks, exits. People move as water does around rocks. A map has begun to emerge.

Have a cigarette.

The tobacco crackles as it catches fire. You take your time with the first inhale.

Smoke rises above the vendors, the walkways, the loose brick and smashed glass. At some point during its ascent, you lose track of it.

The world seems somewhat more kind... or at least less hostile.

What am I doing?

You're watching.

Just watching?

Taking a breather, 'casing the joint', looking for love...

We made it back. Off the shelf and back in the current. No forms, no cold offices. This is how it's supposed to be. Noise, people -- chances.

I could do this forever.

With enough time, you could put down roots, grow moss, scare the tourists -- sure. But are you really built for that?

Shake the feeling.

You're part of the world again. Best not let it slip past.

Shouldn't I be working?

Watching is working, in your trade.

Parse the Bootleg Bazaar's ebbs and flows.

The bazaar stretches before you -- a living, breathing river of colour, plastic, textiles.

A child zooms past with a toy -- a plastic wolf with glowing electric eyes. Two stalls down, the hum of an old disc player buzzes out into the crowd. Further down a woman with red curls haggles with a vendor.

Look toward the toy stall.

A handful of kids crowd the stall, faces lit by the multicoloured glare of Luzian electronics. Shouts of glee follow the report of a toy gun.

Behind them, you see the salesman involuntarily flinch at the sound of the toy gun. The children take no notice.

Nerves, stretched taut to breaking point.

Watch the dockworkers.

Tarps are withdrawn, crates unloaded from the holds of barges. In the pauses between movements, one of them lights a cigarette and stares, as you do, out at the Bazaar with an intense gaze.

It's not a relaxed pause. He scans the Bazaar as though waiting for a sign.

The gaze of a hunter -- or of someone expecting to be hunted. On guard for a sudden eruption of violence.

Look at the vendors.

One of the vendors wearily reorganizes her wares. It seems like a hopeless endeavour amid the chaos of piled goods.

It's not her mess. Someone has been through and upended her stall.

Now look at the whole thing together.

Suddenly it's obvious -- you see it in the movements of the Bazaar just as you would see a limp in the gait of an animal -- a tension, a furtive rapidity in the rhythms of every transaction, in the mien of every salesperson.

The Bazaar trundles on -- functional, but wounded.

What wounded it?

An intruder in their midst.

The Weeping Eye have passed through recently -- kicking, raiding, intimidating, searching for something or someone.

The bazaar is trying to gather itself after an attack, while bracing for another.

Time to go. [Leave.]

A sharp inhale, then your feet return to motion.

An enemy pack has passed through recently -- kicking, raiding, intimidating, searching for something or someone.

Someone's been here...

Yes. They are on guard for the intruders in their midst.

The bazaar moves like one mass; your mind discerns no independent parts.

It's just a mess.

All cities are.

Big capitalist snake goes topsy-turvy.

It does.

The people here, they're living, moving, laughing and trading. But you? You're just a visitor, out of town, leaning on a rail, trying to look cool.

I am cool.

Yeah. To the touch.

It's just a bit too colourful.

You should hope to be a dog in the next life then, more palatable.