Untitled (words in progress)

I had painted by the roadside, under an orange sky, while the joss papers burnt and smoke continued to rise. I had drawn the old banyan tree in the graveyard and urinated into the drain beside it, without a thought for the dead...
Let me talk about that eventful night, or morning, since it was already past twelve. The street was dark and deserted; there was no one around. I knelt under the street lamp, my drawing block and Chinese ink laid out on the ground, a stick or leaf in my hand. I had not brought my brushes, so I had to draw with whatever I could find. At a nearby coffee shop, Adrian and Liang Zhu were having coffee and prata. "Come back one and a half or two hours later," I told Adrian. He was driving that night... The moon shone through the ghostly roots and branches. The tree had probably stood for more than a century. I thought about the famous novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, "One Hundred Years of Solitude", and imagined an illustration of the banyan tree as its cover...