One of the junk stalls had a young woman sitting in a kind of four-sided box as if she were a sexy freak on display for whoever had money to do more than just look at her.

"She's not a prostitute," Cynthia's voice was now clearly coming out of Ms. A's digital configuration. "She's selling cloth."

Golam, his eyes still adjusting to the grey matter of historical indifference as it darkened the scenery around him, was able to refocus his attention on the small cupboard that hung on the wall beside the young woman and noticed that stacked in it were bits of cloth of various sizes. Upon closer inspection he could see the feint traces of other colors trying to emit their light from the oddly shaped mixture of threads. There was green, magenta, blue and red specks glinting like metal reflecting the pomposity of an ego-enshrouded sun.