You Are Late

"Selling knives and cutters, yo!" At dawn, a white haired youth squatted in a corner of the messy and shabby market of Auschwitz and hawked dispiritedly. The rug before him was covered in the swords he had stolen along the way. There was also a carrot he had bought from a nearby stall. After he washed it, it would be his breakfast.

So early in the morning, no one was here other than some vegetable sellers. The dilapidated grouping center was like Avalon's downtown district. It was filled with chaos, unruliness, and coldness. It seemed horrible but not horrible enough to be unlivable. It was stuck in the middle, filled with the feeling of living each day as it happened and wishing for nothing more.