Chapter Eighteen
Post on the f*******: wall of my friend, M.G:
There is a small town with an army, police, citizens, a university, markets, courts, schools, streets, petrol stations, local restaurants, young lovers, obscure poets, pious ascetics, people parking their Peugeots together in the evening, elderly men recounting tales, barefoot children and mothers with asthma, workers coming from cement factories at dusk, Quran teachers who look like old Canaanites, and newspaper sellers who misplace a copy, or ten, of their papers every day.
Outside the city walls lurks a blind legion, awash with weapons, savage lust on their lips. They hover around the city gate like Vikings, amassing in the thousands, then vanishing in the blink of an eye. They use gunpowder savagely, without knowing why.
