Rough poetry on the market of the Anderlecht slaughterhouse, on its floor, o its birds, its collected stories. What happens between the cobbles? What happens when you don’t just pass through? How do you paint a picture of a place that does nothing but destroy itself? You could say that it is a reflection on hunger, on capitalism, on society or on the city, but in the end, these are just generalities. It is a portrait of a miniature world, specific, precise, blind.