FRIDAY There's a small split in the pavement; a butterfly is stuck there, topsy-turvy, unfit to open her wings and get back to her feet. The cracks associated with many other smaller breaks, and if the rain keeps on, the puddle of filthy water that is developing nearby will overspill and send forward waterways, filling the cracks like fresh new veins accepting their first beat of blood and the butterfly will suffocate, topsy-turvy. A blue Gauloises cigarette pack drifts in the puddle, turning gradually as the breeze pushes it over the gutter destined for the Mediterranian sea. You stand on the public terrace inclining towards the window of an antique shop as the movement of traffic lights turn green then red and green again; cars ignore any rules in this North African city. Individuals stroll by disregarding you. You aren’t visible to them, and they stay ignorant of the destiny of the butterfly. Vehicles move past spitting mist onto your already splashed garments and finally the crows – who don't yet consider the rain sufficiently substantial to stop for the night – plunge and swoop around the streetlights where the moths gather entranced. Now, Dead. The thin mist falls straight down, and the relics of colonial structures appear to lean over a permanent cloud of hashish that’s gathered above the terrace, nowhere else. An umbrella its occupants have no desire to leave in a rush. The arched balconies swarm around and look down at you and those among the wounded. Irate mists which hang substantially over Tangier is not for ‘real’ people. They glee in the nomadic novelties, mint tea, and sunshine. No, this mist is just for you and this imaginary realm. The world twists and whips around the sun. Some place a planet is dying and a million stars are detonating in darkness, and the rain continues tumbling further and further down; just before the banks of the puddle break, you push a twig underneath the butterfly, and she flies up; up to be eaten by a murder of crow. You don't have the foggiest idea about your name; you're imaginary, you see. You exist inside the psyche of another person only. You don't have a clue about whose mind you were conceived. You should be their imaginary friend. However, something turned out badly; they quit requiring you nearly as much when they had made you, and now you're stuck in the presence, imperceptible, interminable and caught. It's an amusing thing; the presence. It just continues endlessly. SATURDAY You pack up your things, your sleeping bag, mug, lighter and your red Fez cap; never far from your spoon and needle. You stroll thru the old Medina. Hooded men sit in doorways unable to see you, yet you feel their eyes pierce your skin. You're not by any means the only one, there are plenty of ‘imaginary friends without friends bustling about, and we generally locate each other at ease. The unicorns and sugar fairies can be a pain to convince, but they come around eventually. We have this medicine called Dove’s Powder; it helps us with the sadness and the agony of existing without our person. You need to know a wizard before you can get Dove's Powder; shadowed alleys towards the old Medina have the best wizards these days. You need to pay with cash, demonstrations of kindness or whatever you need to bargain with after the last call for prayer. Most wizards don't seem to be picky about what you bring; they flip new technology like pancakes. Mobile phones. Tablets. Cameras. Every new tech launch; a million more imaginary friends wander the Medina and terrace seeking the Dove's comforts. Do people even need us these days? Dove's powder is risky, taking too much can make an imaginary person undetectable to even other imaginary people. It’s as quiet as space with just the right amount of mystery for you to push for the edge. We don't grieve the absent, here in our reality; there is no such thing as a moment's hush with these voices in your head. The vibrations are too strong, you see. Existing without it is miserable. Numerous have attempted, and they all return to Tangier; back wandering the old Medina looking for a wizard and a fix. Sufficiently given enough time, they all come back to the terrace overlooking the ferry port. This present reality is no place for an imaginary friend yet it appears for each one of us the solution takes two or more times to show and realize where we are. How long has it been raining? It is becoming thicker and bouncing like bodies off the blacktop. Part of the road is a waterfall flowing over the docks in the distance; we group like sardines in a doorway whispering our code. "Holdin'?" "Tapped mate. You?" "Extinction is near, mate." "Crap, eh?" "Fishy's lit, not sure how." "Yes? Jack found a wizard from Brazil man named Pedro." "Yeah. Bloody Knob. Vanished minutes later." "Yes. Well, Fishy's lit." Without any end in sight; until the point when somebody knows somebody who knows a good wizard and a response is given. Guarantees are made quickly, calls up the levels of wizard leadership are ordered, and all while withdraw, again, itches the back of your throat. Just until the end nears and the dove is rising under little flames and one more night is celebrated under the cloud of hashish; gone, left in peace. SUNDAY Ragged looking eyes and elastic tubing still between your teeth, the rain has halted the daylight again, yet sparkles brilliantly shine through raindrops on the leaves in potted plants lining the ancient rooftop. Fishy's slowly becoming invisible and noiseless at this point sitting in her plastic chair. The dove is taking another one, and possibly she's the good one for it, you see. You pack up your belongings; your sleeping bag, mug, lighter and your red Fez cap; never far from your spoon and your needle. You stroll to the antique shop where you lean your head against the glass, and you serenade your serenades. They still don’t see you. You hope that real people will, yet they seldom do, and that rare moment they do see you, they rush to overlook that they saw you at all. Some may believe they've seen a ghost. Never an imaginary friend. MONDAY The sun went down with no Dove's powder, and your teeth are chipped from the grinding. Word descends the line that Willy Burroughs has a batch and you get your red fez cap on, and there is some coins in it now. This is the news you've been waiting for. You chase after Bowles to Burroughs's Kasbah Riad, and there's new art on the walls that could very well be placed in plenty of children's nightmare. You touch nothing. Metal needles heaped up in the corner remind you of uncooked spaghetti with just the tips covered in red sauce; the meatballs could very well be us. The floor is thick with imaginary friends on substantial amounts of Dove's Powder because the sadness has a more significant appetite the longer you’re here. That is something else about the drug; you develop an insusceptibility to it. The first time when you take a dose, you sneak to the opposite side so efficiently, you discover the joy in the void that exists nowhere else. The void doesn’t let go of you; however, after a year, a similar dosage would scarcely facilitate the agony for a minute. Mick and Richards are talking in tongues, and you realize that the Dove's powder is streaming thick in their veins like angel blood and you lick your lips and wish the torment away. Every one of the coins you have doesn't amount to what you require for a strong dosage. However, you put the word to Willy and Bowles that you're on the look. Willy says he'll see what he can do and you hold up among the toothless smiles and the whites of eyes for an answer. What's more, the tingle comes for you quick. Creeping up your arms like summer warmth; blood-loss and you've been here for quite a long time or perhaps minutes. You think about the butterfly, dark royal blue wings of glass flying way up yonder, into the clouds from the road and up to attempt its fortunes among a murder of crow. "Allen has a batch!" You snap out of your howling inner musings, and are lead to Allen. You can't manage the cost of the dose, so you orchestrate an arrangement among others. You go into a room made of rubble, and it just takes six minutes, and you're back on the terrace with your meds in your pocket. Cheeky poet. It comes as a deep orange powder and some readiness is required on your part, but its quick, you see. You include hot water from silver tea set; warmth to bubbling yet not for long, naturally enough, so it doesn't go south. You suck the mix into the metal fang; looking for a blue rubber pipe for your tree-bark arm, and then you're gone; through the Moorish blue door and out way up yonder, into the clouds away from the majority of the torment of the world. Nothing terrible can occur up here; nothing can hurt you inside this protective layer. Nothing. You're under the bed, and there are no monsters; you're skimming on water amidst the calmest waterfall, and you're a winged serpent fly liberated from death by a hooded giant, and you're taking off through the warm, dull night sky. Furthermore, you're pecked by a bloody crow. "Bad batch, Bad batch!" There's confusion someplace around you, despite everything you're flying; however, there's frenzy now as the crows close in and they swoop. They take another chomp. "It's a terrible batch. Bullocks! Try not to touch the unicorns and sugar fairies. They're suffocating." And now you're falling. You're broken, and there's agony and sadness all over, an extreme pain is working your mind and your tumbling further and further down, down, down - your heart pumps liquid metal through your veins, and your lungs are topped off with thick white paste, and you can feel the breeze shrieking through the openings in your wings, and the dove has turned on you, you see. It happens to all imaginary friends in the end. Eyes wide and you're back in Willy's Riad, and faces are coasting above you, empty paper-faces. Willy. Bowles. Jack. Allen. All paper-faces. You attempt to suck air into your porcelain chest, water spills out of your mouth, and you can't prevent your rigor limbs from whipping around. You're going now, through a Moorish blue door considerably more significant than the drug has ever shown you before. It’s magnificent. You don't have a clue about your name; you're nonexistent, you see. You exist inside the mind of another person; just, you don't have the foggiest idea whose mind you were conceived. You should be their imaginary friend yet something turned out terribly wrong; they quit requiring you nearly as soon as they had made you and some place a planet is kicking the bucket and a million stars are detonating in darkness and the rain continues tumbling further and further down. You pack up your things; your sleeping bag, mug, lighter and your red Fez cap; never far from your spoon and needle, and just before the banks of the puddle brake, you push a twig underneath the butterfly and she turns up; up to be eaten by a murder of crow.It's an amusing thing; the presence. It just continues endlessly.