and then our exile

ph.r.d motioned to the piece of electronica held in the hand, red and silver, wires coiling around the neck and nodes plugged into the ears. you probably have john lennon on there.
i must admit i do.
what makes you so transparent? he asked. why have you been born a generation too late? what is wrong?

usman tugged at the pant-leg. bitte ko:nnen wir dahin spielen, bitte bitte? ich will dahin spielen, mit du.
the older woman laughed shortly, sitting in the waiting room. "it's no use telling him anything. we used to travel in a fifth-wheeler. now this." she held her purse on her lap. dark sweater. "you can't tell him anything." the husband and wife across from her nodded their greying heads. the receptionist disappeared down the hall, glancing down at her clipboard.
nein, ich denk...sollen wir drausen gehen? all the people, and all the things, and all the christmas decorations. they decked the halls, they strung across the benches and into the shops and across the boulevard. they do not look at you, the people, they see you only as an image or a shadow. he left his small knit mittens lying neatly on the chair.

in kafka's "fratricide" a passerby watches in morbid, anticipatory fascination, as the murderer approaches his victim.

this is why travel imposes memory: because the moment places gain bittersweet memory we have to inure ourselves to avoid ourselves.

...the words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls.
And whisper'd in the sounds of silence.

children such a heart-rendingly beautiful fitnah.

i am thinking maybe to include a reading of murder in the cathedralor antigone or some-such in post-exam relief and release. if you are interested let me know.

and a quote. profound and deeply true, with a hint of the terrible, but amusing given the speaker.