I loom over the table. I look down upon it. A blue gym towel gives birth to a yellow and black screwdriver. My keys point in all directions. A black cloth shopping bag resembles an incinerated giant clam. More books. I am piling up more books, just as I am piling up more unopened envelopes. What do the two piles have in common? They both contain items that are unlikely to be read. I am listening to Turkish folk music again. I can remember the surprise of looking off towards distant snow-capped mountains on the bus trip to Mardin. The town stood on a rough desert escarpment above the Syrian plain. To tower over one’s neighbour. To render the other country visible to the horizon. Just as the table grows more determinate as I stand at one end. Yet it is not another country. It is my only home. The glass door is ajar. I can hear the chicken sizzling on the barbeque. I sit down for a while.
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