The Adhan

The Adhan

I once sat upon a rooftop in Jericho.

The sun hung high, yet somehow felt closer than ever before. The rays beat upon my newly tanned skin and cut through the streets of dust like high beams in the Illinois fog. Sweat flowed from every orifice of my body. Excess salt crusted upon my forehead. My shirt became a rag soaked in the oils of human exhaustion.

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The Fleeting Smoke of our Innermost Desires

An American Spirit cigarette hangs from my lips as I step into the cold darkness of the late night, though I suppose one of a different perspective could easily enough interpret it as early morning. I stand under the wooden walkway of the second floor. It acts as a sort of awning, shielding me from direct exposure to the all-encompassing darkness that is night. The lamp to my left ruins the solitude I was hoping to find peace in. I contemplate unscrewing the bulb, so that I may properly enjoy my loneliness. Before I can reach for the bulb, I overhear my neighbors arguing about spoiled pie and stale cake. What’s the point. If not the light, then the noise will slice through the night.

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