Bangkok 8
In truth there is something mesmeric about the black maraine’s head-and-shoulder set which has consumed all my attention. At the beginning of the surveilance I watched him get out of his car at a gas station: he is a perfectly formed giant and this perfection has fascinated me for three hours, as if he were some kind of black Buddha, the Perfect Man, of whom the rest of us are merely scale models with ugly flaws. Now that I have finally noticed her, his whore looks erotically fragile beside him, as if he might crush her inadvertently like a grape against his palate, to her eternal and ecstatic gratitude (you see why I am not suitable for monkhood