Raymond Souster For Louis Dudek Beer on a hot afternoon? – what else in this Bon Marché of the World, earth’s narrowest, most crowded rabbit-run, sweating under loud sunshine that glints off baby carriages, tin cups of beggars, silver balls of pawnshops, making the rouge-layered, powder-dipped girls squint hard but not taking anything off their free-swinging walk on the stilt-heels. Beer you said? Right back here behind giant cheeses, wienerwurst truncheons, hungry smells of bread, perfumes of coffee. Look, the cold sweated bottles count out to a dozen and we flight our way past the check-out counter on the street where sun, traffic, noise, faces, heat-breath hit us, stun us. Every face in every window of each building watching as we go down the steaming pavement, on, out of this jungle where the dead are never buried by the living, but crowd onto buses, sit late at bar stools, or wait in the darkness of always airless rooms.