Hot nights and kompang dreams. Suppressed breath, brown skin. A thatched roof and attap feathers rustling. Mus has the strangest dreams. He dreams of a naked man dancing around a walking stick. Sweat crossing the Indian ocean to get close to him. The man sings, Namaku Ali, Ali, Ali. Gold dust in dirt pillows his pale feet. Crumpled edges of his heels search the mattress for an exit. To the other-side. Pushing, he pushes, one with this current, it takes him, wants him. Dan siapa kamu? Namaku Ali, Ali, Ali... One foot below, one foot out. One wrist up, then two climb the air, brushing past undulating hips. Endless desire. Dressed then undressed then dressed in trembling filigree, this dappled gold glinting, over twin brown suns. Closed. Too much skin then not enough skin. Too hot then not hot enough still. Caged lungs heaving beneath. Draw your keris but don't forget to wish. Listen to the beat that insists. The naked man points his stick. A gunshot noise, the kompang splits, one outstretched palm meets dry taut skin. The woman does not stop. She simply smiles. To till this tilted land is to seek its embrace. Hear music and know your aim is true. Would you like some tongkat Ali? Ali, Ali...