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A recorded reading of “Maboneng Walk”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
A mural flakes; the saint grows second skin, a bottle top becomes a crown-cap star, a whistle threads the wire’s violin. A market spills its colour from a bar, the pavement rewrites what the weekend said; a taxi cuts an arc, a moving scar. A shutter blinks; the lens calls out ahead; I catch myself reflected into three, a corridor of I’s the glass has fed. Past catenary lines that net the bee, a seller fans the flies from slices sweet, the sugar calls, and answers easily.
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