Early Dinner at the Market

At a quarter to six, tired stall owners at the Camden Locks Market start to stop sales and prepare for Feierabend. They collect their goods in huge plastic bags and cover their tall clothing racks with patchwork fabrics. They unplug their energy-saving light bulbs, one by one. And one by one the stores seize to to be stores, they turn into empty pavillons, metal skeletons, and finally pale spots in the dusky street.

The weekend merchand across the street packs his bag with a plastic box that probably contained his lunch and a thermos that has no more tea left in it. He shoulders his backpack and checks his leather hipbag full of notes and coins. A little smile forms on his fatigue face. He looks back one last time before he walks away from hundres of tourists, thousands of questions, a long day of salesmanship.

While the Roots are playing their Undun album I'm taking my time eating a rusticana eighth of an Italian pizza, chasing each bite with a sip of Italian double espresso. After reading a chapter of the seemingly never-ending book that I recently picked up, I just sit here, in front of the store that says Italian Pizza and Coffee on the front, and let my thoughts wander around in my head and let them change direction any number of times.