We are sad creatures. I am a prostitute running to seed and my last asset is an idiot son. I am a street-sweeper collapsing under the weight of time and my own obesity. I am a foul-mouthed and repellent daughter desperately in need of a man. Sad creatures. Simple needs. Mr. Dimitriou conjures us into existence in the space of a few lines, and we live, poised between hope and its extinction, for a few brief pages in the harsh world of his pared down prose. Sad creatures, dumb creatures: our spokesman ultimately is a dead or dying dog… woof, woof, dear Lord.
