The Foriegner [sic]

It started at the end, on top of Mount Zalagh. In the medina’s labyrinth the pungent odour of stale death, rapidly superseded by the waft of spices and then perfume; the rich and complex array of aromas, superficial and yet profound. Morocco, 2010

‘…a party night

stars falling from the sky

I lapped up the lightning

burst into laughter

lightning in the heart . . .’

Georges Bataille, Guilty 1944