some of these days

In April I lined up my best figurines
and brought the hammer down repeatedly.
I made a pile of hands, a pile of eyes:
only the mouths escaped, lipping
quietly under the bed.
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[Sent to Nic's office is a too-cheerful bouquet of flowers to match the unseasonable season. No card, no note -- no need for one. He can assume the accompanying smile as he likes.]

And a bright and lovely faux-spring to you all. Shall we begin the countdown as to magic-addicts foaming at the mouth for inability to get their monthly fix?

[Market Vendors]
[With all the polite pleasantry of Julia sat up in interest for other peoples' lives and livelihoods.] Is everyone receiving remuneration for circumstances beyond your control? I would imagine not. Lacking that: I should hope none of you have paid recent dues to the Market. It being shuttered absolutely should not fall upon your shoulders.

It's skipping breakfast for coffee at a cafe, sitting outdoors under oversized umbrella, all crossed ankles and chin in palm while rain hisses on the street and traffic rolls past. Julia's little plots and plans are countless thread-thin fishing lines left out to dangle bait, to draw big bites; before the next Market shakes off its dust in favor of tawdry occultism, she has time to kill. She is, then, the languid sleepiness of lying in wait -- the very epitome of a lazy Sunday afternoon before back to busy bee-dom.

Off-Market dealers in Hoodoo. Who to see, where to go?