Jamaica in the Winter.

Samy was running late. He ran in between the rows of Sunday merchants in the market. He carried his briefcase and ran straight forward trying to avoid impacts by surrounding human space barriers, and strategically planning in advance his next moves. Panoramic viewing he would call it. Something his father taught him to always keep in mind. And that way you would know how to predict and prepare.

This time, he felt he was disappointing him. Yes, he was jumping obstacles to get to his destination, but he was running late. And for that reason alone, all chances were against him. Or so he thought.

He looked at his gold watch. But knew he could only spare a few milliseconds before avoiding a crash with the next person.

He needed to keep his briefcase tightly gripped. He could not afford any mishaps. Apart from this one. The crucible. He kept running, row by row, jumping puddles of pigs’ blood, fish blubber and old people from the floor. He sometimes pushed apart people in order to save time and energy. Or so he thought. But he was only getting more and more tired. More and more exhausted. He looked again at his watch. Stared for a second. Looked back up. He started to notice how everything seemed to repeat itself. The fat butcher on the corner, smiling at the old lady dressed in silk. The dog crossing the path trying to reach and smell another dog. The puddle. Euh! It was blood. Watch out! The blubber’s there! The decrepit one-legged man, whose cataract eyes make him seem like a sorcerer. Everything was the same. Samy looked back at his watch and realized that time had stayed still. He was getting nowhere, but rather, to the same place. Over and over again. Then he stopped, looked around and realized, that this was not life. But rather, just, Death.