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About Medan

Dost thou ken how they’d tat up their skin, some o’ these wenches? Little known, aye—scars o’ roses, inked with soot, to mark their trade. Rough beauty, that, like Kamaji’s sooty hands craftin’ magic. “Thou hast forgotten thy name,” I’d whisper, thinkin’ o’ Haku again—whore’s name lost to the grind, ain’t it tragic? Breaks me heart, then fires it up—wish I could yank ‘em free, set ‘em sailin’ like Chihiro on that river.

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But then, I see this kid trying to sell flowers. He’s got this big smile, and I’m like, “Aww, man.” I buy a bunch, and he looks so happy. It’s a small thing, but it made my day.

De Tjolomadoe / Airmas Asri