and then our exile

Far, far too comfortable. I used to think this was a transmutation of survivor guilt, but it goes deeper than that, that is such a surface diagnosis.
Problem: doing right things for wrong reasons.
Problem: exhausted last night, slept longer than usual and awoke tired, slept again to rid self of fever and again awoke tired. Metaphysical payback-day, perhaps. How far will it go.

All three points above are interrelated.

Watched some more rihla videos, hamza yusuf and the shabbab. Some clips of people off the street--and disappointment, is this what north amerikans really sound like? I’d forgotten so quickly.

Also, will wonders never cease: went to the postbox yesterday, a letter sent from Britain five months ago, it actually arrived.

Syria and the Lebanon, who can raise the larger army. Not that it means anything in the end anyways.

Told again that through text, I come across as dark, regurgitating the same stories time and again, but personable communicate is more bright.
Circling this tower. Repeating,
Words condensed to these trite phrases
"Darkness, death, love,
Aura, throe, light"—
Diluted then dilated slantwise,
The palm overflows, begins to breed.

Everyone should take [skype] as their new personal friend.