The Sand Pile

As I sit in my balcony, I look down at a dog rubbing his back in the small patch of soil between dry yellow grass. It's a to-and-fro motion, but it looks like playfulness. A few minutes later, he gets up and climbs a pile of sand that those construction people left a few months… Continue reading The Sand Pile


No title, no war.

There are deaths, and then there are deaths from the attack. You tell yourself not to get involved, but you're too deep in the quicksand, deeply affected, can't undo what you saw, can't erase what you feel. You dream about the war, being there in the smoke, it's a never-ending zone. If you spoke those… Continue reading No title, no war.