so your roommates warn you against ever being the last living body in a rented place and then themselves quietly slip awae, leaving ten old toothbrushes and a bottle of liqueed as parting gifts to tug at heartstrings and revive the oulder days. and so you wander on, realizing kirk douglas is so terribly american he is hard to watch but for that he is a symbol of a simpler time, and that some oranges are purple inside, and that the cough which rises after climbing many stairs might be related to mold-rain or it might be paranoia. you roll up nonexistent sleeves and lift the grey from grey, it becomes white, and the martyrpride of cleaning up works with words, "patch'ed self-respect begins to wonder", a scrub scrubbing in the early night. then it is adhan and you walk down to kardan for the first time in days, dropping black garbage bags into a green container on your way down, "wa 'alaikumussalam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh!"--an older man in a thick jacket against dawn cold. as you walk back the sky is a lighter blue, arcing sunlight turns gold from pink, and you are early for the freenet, so walk toward salahuddin. city waking up, miekros filling and schoolchildren yawning. a blue hijab walking in front of you whistled at by a tall cleanshaven jeanjacket across the street. you turn off the main road, remember an orange cat climbing a concrete wall. plastic chair, deep-art.
this is approximately six hundred twenty-three millilitres of concentrated caffeine typing on behalf of a dukhi needing du'a.
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Today's picture, the tunnels of the walls of [
Krak des Chevaliers]. i'd wanted to go here ever since i was about eight. And then i did.
i've seen fire / and i've seen rain (JTaylor)
