The gravity of debt.

The plastic doors in the bhangamobile are vibrating to MIA. Beatshimmering, music pistons. Tinted and mysterious, sunglassed and autostylish. Here comes the perfume of summer. Beside the SUVs, bull mastiffs and bug cars, in the maze of slots and snakes, backwards and underneath, slow dripping freon pee collects. We gather here too, around this rectangular temple-barn, exchanging bits for atoms, slipping backwards and down, imperceptible, incremental, with the gravity of debt. A new Raj crumbling to a dulled new soundtrack.