where the writers are
Nothing

They stand, mutely selling bread to the Night Market crowd. A girl in a mini-skirt buys a roll for $10. He claps his hands again, making a sound he cannot hear. Another girl in denim mini-shorts buys a roll. An old man with his little son buy two rolls. So the night continues. Girl after skimpily-clad girl buys roll after roll until all of them are gone. It's 3am on a Sunday morning and time to go home to bake more bread. They pack up and leave. Still nothing to hear. Nothing to say.