DOOM
TIME BELLS.

Night after isya’. At a coffee shop on the sidewalk. Cars and motorcycles passed. Her bell is clanking the noise. Smoke from the exhaust slaps the nose of every pedestrian.

Next to him, the fried sellers and the people who began to swarm his wares. Picking one or two fried tempeh and dipping it into a cup containing super spicy sambel.

Somewhat to the right a little, the pedicabsters still look relaxed on the tricycles, while enjoying a puff of cigarette smoke from their black mouths. Every now and then when one or two buses stop, they immediately get up and quickly thrust their rickshaws toward the passengers who get off. Some are silent and some are sour when among them offended welcome to ride a rickshaw. Some rickshawmen even play playing playing playing cards in their hands.

Across the street. Some people look busy pacing, glaring at one by one street vendors lined up on the side of the road. The sweet black chick selling fried rice next to the VCD store, so sweetly spread a smile towards the night crowd. Two young people are interested, although not too interested, a cup of bitter coffee plus a sweet smile rice selling girl, can drive away the cold that began to stab.

Two middle-aged women in half-open clothes in the corner of the shop, showing a sweet cleavage on her chest. And with a mini skirt as high as almost the safety triangle, so flirtatious to spread a smile on his crotch, until the night made premature ejaculation.

In the other corner of a rather dim stall, two lovebirds seemed engrossed in each other. There was a huge outpouring of lust in the pair of eyes, which unblinkingly held the tremors under their navels. Sometimes the man's hand seemed to wander whatever he wanted. The woman pretended to be ashamed. HIngar was binging the sound of karaoke across the street, as if the sound of stupidity was lurking over the residents of the night. The breath!

A middle-aged woman with disheveled hair and a dirty white dress in black pants, suddenly woke up from her sleep on the sidewalk, in front of a sugar factory. It's yawning. The smell of his mouth rattled against the puff of smoke from the factory chimney. His eyes seemed to follow every blow on his big belly. He rises. With shabby bundles on his shoulders, taking turns he came to every street vendor along the street. At the ice seller he asked to be packed, at the meatball seller he asked to stick one or two pentols and at the rice stall, he asked to be wrapped in a packet of rice. Huh! The food menu is complete tonight. He felt his life was really good. Just ask and pretend to be crazy. At least for tonight his life could be extended. Why be ashamed of your pride and go crazy. And does this world guarantee that we remain sane with the noise of factories, the selfish, individualist chatters of shiny sedan cars, of the sane? Selfish, individualist and heartless, even to his own relatives. The feeling of love is like a thin cotton that is increasingly eroded in a series of lives, which forces us to get used to dancing on the cries of others. The cough of old men under the bridge, who died two nights ago, is still heard in the wild of the sound of crickets on the river. As if it were meaningless by the roar of the factory and the horns that do not want to miss time. Each other chased, hunted, and the stalks of weak bodies were helplessly oppressed.

Night stroking the chest and the crickets no longer know the rhythm of the song.

A white-copied young man only shook his head with a smile, occasionally looking back then somewhat shyly grabbed another magazine in the corner of the stall. Another one who from earlier glanced half reluctantly to a rah photo half naked it could only scratch the bottom of his stomach.

A friend next to her whispered, “This is all too ordinary, look at my HP, oral high school girls*** in class. If you want, just come to the city square, the price varies, starting from fifty thousand, some are even willing to be paid twenty thousand just to buy a pulse. It costs about the same as the CD. Even flirtatious gray girls can be taken everywhere, to the hotel is also more good, can additional service again. On the sidelines of times beside the pulpit surau is also okay. Our friend who was in the fourth semester only yesterday, someone brought a girl to campus and was gang-raped by some other student friends, with a critical position. Pardon me! With standing position. Now it's very easy, just cut it, just say so what is it!

Shame and self-esteem are just cheap items that are auctioned at flea markets. And throat choked and always forced to say” Nafsi...nafsi! my business, your business and Lord”'s business.

...subhanallah! the sound of crickets flowing and the face of the night bowed.

Back across the street, in a coffee shop. Some people seem cool in sipping warm coffee while smoking cigarettes. Not far from the river, a half-sloping black-fired rent opened the zipper of his pants and instantly made a fountain over the river. A veiled young mother blushed at the old trunk that had already lost its power.