Self-serve buffet

The smell of fire is sweaty. Like wet charcoal that cools. In the street, the walls of buildings darken, the flames ejaculate through the windows. The skins of passers-by begin to cook. The color changes, the cracks are everywhere. It gets all dry on their face. The teeth are popping. And then the rats with fleas all over the place. Rats that fly overhead. Rats that squeak softly. Who tense and relax. Slowly. And the rat's tail is sweeping. It's because they ate death. So they make faces of silence.