He pulls around in a wonky swerve, beating me to the corner. The window wound down, his face appears, beckons me over. He works so much his hands are melted to the steering wheel, skin splaying from fingers in a wheel-turning frenzy, all the time. Blackened tissue around his eyes from fighting the test of sleep and he's still going, covering more distance every day, more distance than the human body allows, in a part-broken taxi. The sound of the break shimmies, like it's messed up, shot to gravel, like it isn't there.


I've been thinking about religion alot. About how people use it to do what they want, its convenience in its meldability, the way you structure your interpretations. I'm an atheist. I cannot believe in God, I lack the imagination for it. I study religion, I study from an outsider's perspective, keeping it real. Keeping it within my safe and objective scientific lens. I study people from a scientific perspective.

'I believe in black magic,' he says, suddenly, turning to me and I feel a rush of black fogging the car. I see the yellow-whites of his eyes gleam golden in the momentary darkness, suddenly enlivened like coals with air blown over them to feed the fire within. Then he screws his lids, chuckles.