The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

Vertigo

Arround me, in silence, a gathering. Heads of the War Council, officials of the Accord, Jannisaries... All listening.

In that moment, it struck me once more. That history and story are but one thing, that the past is a tale, that each tale echoes the past. There was no substantial difference between the public there and the public when I perform the Thousandfold Tale. It is a matter of rhetorics and construction, of how and why you build the narrative. But in essence?

In essence, it is the same.

Once there was a city.
And in that city, wonders were made.
Jewels of silver, weapons of bronze.
And its name was Bet Nappahi

I went through evidence and theories, doing my best to insist on the hypohetical nature of much of it. What I offer, after all, is ever speculation. Well-informed, perhaps, but speculation nonetheless. And perhaps, in the Telling, even I got carried away, Story presented as Truth.

(Such a tempting thing, Truth.)

Once, an argument ensured.
"Are we for War or for the turning of the Ages?"
Discussions upon discussions followed.
Till the Axe was raised, and broken.
And the Ash first drank a brother's blood.
Spilled by a brother's hand.

A seat was offered. My idea, which had captured Zain's imagination. I suppose it made sense, and it was a good position for my talents. This was not a simple war, but an ever-War.

The echo of an echo of an echo.

History, reververating through the Ages.

The past and the present thus entwinned, like lovers.

And once, and again, and again, it came.
The Games, the celebrations, the ringing of the shields.
The past, staged; the songs, sung.
The Ages, burnt in the flesh of the Disc.

And when we were done, when the meeting ended, I found myself dazzled. I stood at the lobby for a moment, my expression so thoughtful and lost Bashir was, for a moment, concerned. There was no reason to be, of course. I just was somewhat lost in the moment, finding my way back to the present.

Standing so tall on my work, on all the evidence and stories and deduction and reading... I felt as though I had climbed a high Peak and saw, below me, the distant shapes of the Past.

And I felt vertigo.
Because deep go the Ages.
And deeper, still, Truth awaits me.

[Don Nadie]

We Will

"Governance", she whispered, with a rueful smile.
"It is not quite our cup of tea, really, is it?"
"It is not", I admitted.
"But it needs doing"

We were whispering by the altar (her altar)
The wind made the leaves of the palm-tree rustle, like a secret.

"Yes", she agreed. Her hands entwinned under her sleeves.
"This is what being a citizen means"

I found myself pondering whether I did, in fact, hate her.
And how much more simple things would be, if I did.
My mentor, and friend, and superior officer, all.
If she were alive - how different things would be.

"It is so beautiful against the dusk", she said, suddenly.
A pause, a breath's length. Cricket's ringing in the silence.
"Al'Nasr", she added, almost to herself.

I followed her gaze, set on the Pyramid.
Behind it, the sky bloomed in purple and red.
The colors embracing slowly and mingling and darknening.
As the starts bloomed one after another.

"At this hour", I said, "things seem both eternal and transiet"
"As though they'd stay forever like this", I pondered.
"And all it takes is a blink, for them to vanish".

I lowered again my gaze, from the stars (and the space between the stars) - The altar was an open hand, inviting. At that moment, I remembered the first prayer I was taught by the Hakawati. I was so small, when I learned it. I was so broken, too.

"Take my hand, and heed the call.
Take my hand, and go further
Take my hand, for the world is wide.
And in its wideness, my hand is waiting"

   
Odd, to think of that old prayer, which I hadn't recited in ages. A prayer for children, really, simple in its construction. I found myself remembering how at first I kept saying "and herd the call". I was taught to sing it as I learned common, perhaps I had been taught it to learn common, just as I was told the Seven Cat Tales and the Three Stories About Figs and the entire Airamayalava.

I was taught so many things, many of which I had, in one way or another, set aside. Without leaving them behind, of course. Rather, I had put them in some hidden corner of my heart, to gather dust and lose their luster. Then again, I suppose I know better than most that what has been lost can be found again, that was has been dulled by Ages is no less precious. That the hand is open, and awaiting in the wideness.

Traveller, oh Traveller, how much love you have for the Wayward.

"I hope we'll live through this", I said.
At long last she turned her dark, feverish eyes.
From the Pyramid, onto me. They seemed to shine in the darkness.
"If we are wise", she stated, "we will".

[Don Nadie]

Height

Obviously, these personal notes are never rarely ocassionally only sometimes used to bitch about annoying things, in an absolutely reasonable and measured way which shows my great emotional balance and maturity. Anyways, this is one of those ocasions.

What's the matter with height?!

I'm just saying, height? No merit to it! Anyone can be high, mostly on account of being born big and/or stretching a lot as a teenager. So why should a perfectly average-size man such as a myself have to feel emasculatedunfairly compared with giants like Bruno or Rajo? Why is everyone swooning for huge chunks of muscle-man? Just because they are enormous, and strong, and could possible break a man in two like a twig?

(NO need to go over diary entries regarding Boucher)
(That was entirely different)

You know what's impressive? Scholarship! Poetry! Being a good dancer-singer-songwriter! Having shiny hair and excellent skin despite never wearing a helmet! Eloquence! Storytelling! An exotic accent! Being good with languages! A derrierè that has been praised by the very Spem Nurto, Scourge of the Near Seas! An excellently proportionate amount of muscles which don't impede touching your own toes, thank you very much!

And then I wake up and it turns out that Aubrey of all people has become a giant woman! Now, as far as I know, the only ways to get bigger are all horrifying, and cause irreparable harm to the self: brooking, curses and heels... So obviously, not options for me!

I'm going back to sleep...

[Don Nadie]

Fancy Clothes

[A looong and suspiciously meandering entry about clothing...]

They have a saying in common, "Clothes don't make the man". Personally, I much prefer the versions of my own tongue: "Habits don't make monks" and the much more colourful "Though the monkey may dress silk, she's a monkey still". Obviously, they all point at the same idea: that clothes are superficial to our behaviour and ability; that we remain, in essence who we are.

All three proverbs are, of course, spectacularly wrong.

Now, I'm being facetious, of course. Evidently, there are aspects of ourselves that are hidden and subterranean. These are not, however, unrelated to our appearance. When I first left the Balladeers, finding clothes I felt comfortable in (clothes that made me feel as myself) was important for me, emotionally. And though our clothes may pretend to separate us in some matters (say, the togas differenciating between the Voiced and Voiceless, an artificial distinction if there ever was one) our underlyning similarities remain still.

In our everyday life and duties, clothes are important. When I was a Student of the Lost Hearth, it didn't matter how much effort I put and how much I acted as Lynneth's second-in-command: I was taken much more seriously the moment I had a uniform. Clothes make others react to us in different ways, clothes grant weight to our statements. I really need weight to my stThey are an illusion, of course... But what are we, the People of the Disc, if not creatures of illusion?

I suppose I'm saying all of this because I bought new clothes, for the Divan. While the announcement is still pending, I was still informed of our next meeting, and needed to be... Ready and prepared.I don't know if I'll ever be pre Apparently, the dress code is rather strict, and I can't be outfancied by Zain (who does look extremely dashing in his new clothes). So I grabbed Elias and spent a not-inconsiderable time of the afternoon in the Hall of Silk and Leather. He has, from what I remember before he took the potato-sack, a good taste in clothes. He'd kill me if I we

It was, as was to be expected, a lot of fun. Clothes-shopping always is. I tried to go for my classic red and white combination, but with the fancy clothes it made me look a bit like a courtly fool. A fool's what IDark purple seemed a bit too fancy as well, and dark blue echoed too much the Tower. In the end, slate-ish blues and white will were the nicest option, and they have the advantage of echoing the colors of the League of White. Does that even represent me?Along with my translation cloak, the suit is actually a rather decent. Only problem? I can't add a fancy feathered hat! For some reason, fancy hats clash too much with cloaks?!

When I looked at myself in the mirror I thought I looked the part. I looked handsome and fancy, and if the way Elias and señora Pang were watching me were any indication, it was not just my impression. My heart sunk a little whenI smiled through insecurities and made a few jokes about how I'd much prefer to wear sandals (which I would). To think that I used to call boots "foot prisons". I've grown accustomed to prisons, I suppAnd put the clothes away, because I don't want to be answering questions before the matter is official.

And it was a nice way to not think of the real problem.
Of the fact that, tomorrow, people will start dying. That I will make decisions on their deaths.
That Aurelio might die soon. As is his want. That Athelia, heartbroken, may join him.
He might die, and I still haven't made up with him.

It was nice. It was sweet. It was fun. They made me blush, a little. All is well.

Tomorrow, all will be well in the Well.

[Don Nadie]

Dead Word

[There's a tearstained letter, tucked between these pages]

* the seed breaks * the petal blooms * the flower withers*

It keeps on happening, the loss. I knew it was a possibility when I took her Will. That strange man told me not to cry on my fears alone but... Were they fear or where they Truth, reaching with His burning fingers into my burning heart? Were that I knew, then. That I had told her to stop, and stay behind. That I was gifted prophecy, the veils of the future parted. That I could alert her, and save her.

But I didn't try to stop her, because how could I? Why should? She was doing what was right, she was doing what she thought was right. She did, in fact, what was right. I just didn't expect her to pay for it.

* the seed breaks * the petal blooms * the flower withers*

When she arrived I could barely believe it. On Athelia's arms, a bundle of cloth and hair and blood. What tiny things they become, the people we love. How diminute they turn out to be, the moment air leaves their lungs and they fall: a clump of nothing, a fistful of mist. Athelia carried her in her arms more closely, more intimately that she had ever carried her in life. So tightly woven together, now, with no miscommunication, no untold desires, no unspoken promises standing on the way. So close.

We went to her home, we read her Will. I received a cloak, beautiful and dyed with the darkest colors. For I like to look good. I would've smile at that playful teasing had it not been impossible. I was sobbing, instead. Her handwriting, divined, more than read. 

* the seed breaks * the petal blooms * the flower withers*

Bashir left, as did Miranda. Alone, the threetwo of us were left, and I felt once more, just as piercing, the quickness with which a person becomes a thing. She was laying on the sofa, and I kneeled by her side. Her hair, usually so well-kept, was clumped with dry blood. We'd have the Twindari wash her, before seeing to her burial. In the city she grew to love.

Then, I raised my eyes to Athelia. Mirrors, I realized right there and then, are horrid things. The way they show us at our worst, mercilessly. My mirror, my echo, was there: Athelia looked just like me, when I carried the body of Leiah, an eternity ago. Worse than me, perhaps - a wound deeper still. The pain of having failed to protect someone you love. And having, forevermore, to write "loved" instead.

* the seed breaks * the petal blooms * the flower withers*

A letter arrived later in the evening, for me. I cannot say that the noise woke me: I was awake, and my pillow, full of tears. The sound of paper slipping under the door was, in a way, a welcome distraction. As it turns out, she had left two missives: one, to name her successor. One, to say goodbye to me.

I read it, again and again. I broke into tears, again and again. A thing of Sorrow, this last memory clinging to paper. For a moment, in my sleepless exhaustion, I think I understood the Stonefolk: there was something heinous to her being still there, in paper, yet being no more. "Dead word", they call writing.

But, horridly, it was in it alone that she was living still. 

* the seed breaks * the petal blooms * the flower withers*

(This, I guess, is why They tell us to burn the letter)

[Don Nadie]

Cosine Mevura

"He is a hero", I said, "and a liar".
(I did not knew how soon I'd have to use "was")
Towering, he looked at me. Not a smile in his lips, something else.
"It so", he agreed, with a shrug like the trembling of a mountain.
"So Alejandro and Cosine should be best friends".

I suppose I should describe how it felt, to see him fallen.
"Impossible". That is the adjective that comes to mind.
A thing that both shouldn't and couldn't happen. So young under his mask.
I felt too many things at once: sadness, and mourning, and pain.
A horrid, ill-tasting relief that made me feel wretched and selfish.

Once, a boy was scared, so he put on a mask.
For, with a mask, a boy can be much more than scared.
He can be a villain, a politician, a hero, a savior, a liar, a king.
A mask is all it takes, to transform a scared boy into much more than he was.
And so the boy acts and acts and acts and acts. As the world requires.
And, in the end, like every actor, he'll take a bow.

(We should be close friends, indeed)
(Except that nobody likes mirrors)

[Don Nadie]

Indeed

Once more, death has conspired to see me run. At first, I read Akna's letters, and Miro's announcements, with relief. What a joy, to know that there was someone who wanted to take the mantle while I dealt with my mourning. And then, suddenly, no. Her retreat, again.

"You don't have to do it if you hate the idea, Alejandro..."
"Who is left if I do not run?", I asked. Rhetorical, of course.
Hypatia sighed: "No one", she admitted.
And I nodded, took the paper, gave my name.
"Exactly so".

It was a bit of a blur, the calculation of possibilities. That Mae and the Tower were unlikely to follow me. That perhaps Samton could if Colmes did but then Atreya - no, not Atreya, she was dead. Too many names and possibilities and matters to ponder. And above it all, looming, her death.

"Are the rumors true, Alejandro?", asked Samtom, "Are ye runnin'?"
And I nodded, grimly. He stared at me quietly, for a moment.
"Time to straighten up and get to work, then"

The main obstacle, at present, is simply the gathering of signatures. The current laws, while their purpose is understandable, absolutely do not contemplate the option of candidate dying. (I suppose enterprising assassins may soon take note of a good way to affect politics).

"My condolences on your candidacy", Clarissant murmured.
I was going past her, trying to find more and more people.
Having dealt already with the inevitable recriminations that always ensue, no matter the action.
"Thanks", I responded, with a sigh.

"Both Miro and Akna took many names with them". It sickens me, to even write that phrase. Her death turned into an inconvenience, part of some plot or some development or some absurd political maneuver. Her death turned and I turned, too, away from mourning and into... This heinous performance.

But it is always the same as it always was. Either you step up, or someone worse may.

"Perhaps in a month's time", he said, "we'll see this as the moment where it all began"
He reclined on the chair, a self-satisfied smile in his lips, his hands on the curve of his stomach.
I do not know if it was the sweetness of the roses or this that made me sick.
The necessity of it. Of backroom meetings, and agreements, and understandings.
Then again, it could be the memories of this Dungeon, that were turning my stomach.

"Indeed", I said. 

[Don Nadie]

"Wench"

There's something fascinating about his tone, sometimes.
The inch of an inflection that separates his calm from his agony.

"She smiled", he explained.
"This one nearly screamed"

In the tiny room, he seemed all the bigger.
Tall and imposing, yet strangely fragile, too.
And in his frailty, anger. Like the rummaging of dark clouds.
The talk was a ponderous, rumbling affair.
Punctuated with the unexpected word, like lightning.
(Insults, all the more significant upon his tongue)
There he said, to me, what could not be said elsewhere.

"This one does not show emotions openly", he admitted.
"So it falls to you... Because you understand"
"What it means to have a face. And to have it taken".

He needed to complain, I think. And I understood, of course.
(Sometimes the heart is so full that it must spill)
(Yet it can't spill just anywhere, often enough)
He needed to complain, because he loved him, as I loved her.
And because I love him, I lend an ear.
(I just clasped my hand, and listened)
Until anger became the soft melancholy of mourning.

"There are things that get easier with practice"
"Losing a friend, burying a friend"
"It never gets easier"

It was as it ever is, in such cases: a sacrament of friendship.
The act of speaking the truth, to someone who won't share it.
The act of lending an ear, for someone who needs it.
And as in every sacrament, at the end, there was something.
Not peace, exactly. Something lighter, and weaker, and more frail.
(But something, still)

"Come, Alejandro. Thank you for listening to old fool"
"Who likes to think has grown beyond feelings"
"And is sometimes reminded of them, and says 'wench'"

(There was something el; something he added, as we were about to leave:
"This one knows not what it means to be human"
"But would like to think you embody it"
And I'm not sure of what that means, or how to take it)

[Don Nadie]

Buried

I find myself wondering about time. How it slips, how one becomes less or more availible. There are times when little happens and days seem to stretch, and one can spend them in contemplation, and joy. There are times, too, when History cracks its whip and the Disc seems to move so fast as to be dizzying. Too much time dedicated to meetings and intrigue is too little dedicated to friendship, and art, and stories, and, I suppose, all else. To things that make life worth living.

So while there were some reasons I could've been gathering more signatures, or trying to, I was somehow too weary after Mirielle to continue. And he seemed moody. Some shadow over his expression, a distracted and aimless melancholy.

I held his hand, and told him he was important. Sometimes, I think, everyone needs to be told they are important.

Then
          off                                                               that.
                   w                            ~~               and
                       e      ~~       ~~             is
                            w     ~~               h
                               e      oO        t
                                 nt,     did


And at the end, he helped me bury the stack. Not because I don't need it, but because I do. I had lost a friend and managed not to throw myself into it... Surely, I could handle an election without drowning myself in mizzar.

Not without wanting to, mind you. But without actually doing it.

"I'm proud of you", he said.
And I smiled, and nodded.

(And the lightness in my stomach almost made up for the heavy pull of the clouds)

"So am I", I responded.

[Don Nadie]

Means and Ends

"You have killed the man I knew, Alejandro"
"I don't know you anymore".

I sighed, wearily. I was surprised by his coming, but not by his words.
(I've known myself soiled, in his eyes, for a long time)

"The men each of us were yesterday", I answered,
"will always be dead by tomorrow"

The bitterness in his tone, that was unexpected.
He was dour, and scowling, and angry.
Even with his face covered, his every inflexion showed it.

"That's a good quip", he said. Sarcasm, dripping.
"Have you considered becoming a Balladeer?"

He had things to say about my choices and intrigues. It took me a moment to even understand what he was saying, but then it clicked. Caddick. Caddick had gone Aubrey on the Students. And Aurelio thought that I was behind it, that I supported it. My poor, beautiful Aurelio. Thinking that I was going Aubrey. Even defending myself felt like digging in his wound. I felt dirty, trying to. I may not have done this, specifically, but I had caused it.

"Cooperation is important", admitted Zol Nur, later.

His eyes expressionless, studying me. As I ,pained, sought advice.

"But every intermediary means there's less of you left".

In the end, decided to follow his advice. I just went arround him, to the students. To apologize, and give them word. To express my position. To each of them, in person, being honest. For their part, they didn't seem to bear great ill will towards me. I suppose that I hadn't made them feel betrayed, which helps being forgiven.

Whether I was going to win or lose, I should do it as decidedly not-Aubrey, not-Ricario, not-Domhnall...

Of course, I was likely to lose, the White much stained by Ricario and Domhnall, myself far too unpopular with politically active members of the Accord.

Part of me was sad at the idea of my own unpopularity.
Part of me, exceedingly relieved.
             Maybe I don't have what it takes.
           And maybe that's for the better.

[Don Nadie]

Oh, No

I was pacing round and round and round the Pilgrim.
Letting the last minutes of the Primaries run. Why not?
I was irked, yes, because I am easily annoyed.
But as I turned and turned and turned, I would lie to say I wasn't also relieved.
Relieved that I would be spared it, after all.
That I had done my duty, and could slip away to more pleasant things.

Then it rang. Rumors flying through the bellows.

The League of White has selected Alejandro Benjazar
to serve as their candidate this season.

And it struck me, first the surprise.

"Wait, what?", I muttered.

And then, a moment later, the realization.

"Oh, no"

[Don Nadie]

Perspective

"How quickly League and Accord lose importance when our home is in danger", said Zol Nur.
We were staring at the map. At the figures and their movement.
A grim silence had built up, after the two reports.
The echoes of a distant mission. The fears of a future one.
"Perspective", said Colmes.

Once, there was a place high, high up.
Above in the clouds, where the herons flew.
And from up there, one could see the land.
In all its precious frailty.

"I want to defend the League's positions", I said, frowning.
"But I don't want to play games with War"
A nod, from our weary Warmaster.
(Did he seem so consummmed, before?)
"You are in a difficult position", he said. "I don't envy it, or you"

And it was so far up that, when one descended,
in the time that it took to fly back down,
one could forget the size of the place, and its color.
One could forget its smell, or what it was for.
Even the name of the place could be forgotten, as one returned.

I felt grim, on the ashsail. My hands gripping the rails.
Winds howled as we descended, so loud I felt a little fearful.
"Do not expect to win on honesty", he stated, calmly.
The stillness of his tone somehow cut through the noise.
"But you have already lived your life with lies and half-truths", he added,
"Mostly directed at yourself"
(Was that the semblance of a smile I saw in him, as the ashsail came to a stop?)
"Trying something new will only help you grow".

But no matter how long it took,
when one's feet touched again the Disc,
there was no way of forgetting how small it was.
And how easy to break.

I felt awkward, stepping off the Ashsail.
"Thanks, my friend", I said.
"I'm trying to, hm"
Took me a moment to find the strength to say it.
(Because to say it would be making a promise to myself)
(One I might not be able to keep) Then found the strength nonetheless.
"Grow".

[Don Nadie]

Just Talk to Me

I tried on the words, the same way one tries a new suit. The words I had prepared. "As Head of Research and culture, and representative of our War effort", I declared, so very officially. My every word rehearsed, running down the beats I had prepared. Trying to find the best way to say: you may die. And I'm here to bear witness, and keep your story. Turns out the best way is the most simple.

"Skip this part, love", she said. "I don't want to hear it"
Her breast, rising and falling swiftly. Panic climbing up her lungs.
"Just talk to me, alright?".

Sincerity, then, worked best. Clarity. To know what she would want done, if the worse came to pass. To offer a listening ear. Even in the middle of election, with everything else happening, it felt sacred, this duty. To hear a story. A sacrament of trust, and within this trust, revelations:

Once, there was a woman who had a child.
And the storm raged and raged.
So the woman had to wade the Ash as one wades a river.
A babe against her breast. So eager to live, so precious.
So frail and tender and soft. A treasure, too beautiful to lose.
A treasure that, in a better world, would never be lost.
If only the world were better.

"I had to carry her thuh-through the desert"
"It isn't right", she sobbed. "I couldn't do anything"

At what point did I cross the table? When did I end up sitting next her? When did I begin holding her hand, holding her in an embrace? I don't think I really noticed my own actions - they were reflexes, automatic. The self-evident necessity of kindness: holding her body as she sobbed against my breast. Holding her story. My tears running, too.

"Part of me, too, blames itself from surviving", I said.
(My truth, a reflection her own)
"But...", I added, "We must learn to let go"
"Not the memories of those we loved. Not the memories of our pain."
"But the guilt", I whispered, tenderly.

The guilt. Surviving where others didn't. Carrying their memories, seeing their ghosts, hearing their voices in the voices of strangers, and knowing they'll never be back. The guilt of living on. Sometimes, letting go is what takes the most strength. The heart is always brimming, always filling, always spilling. But how dire, when it weights so heavy that it makes us drown.

"Anything else, señora?", I asked.
She had calmed herself, we had both wiped our tears.
Her desires and last words had been noted. She squeezed my shoulder, tenderly.
"...It's already more than I planned to say, love", she said, simply.

What a strange thing, that guilt, and how easily it can drown us, in the storm. What was it that she said? It was a lifetime ago, but I almost think I hear her. From between the stars, her voice. I know that she used me, but I think she cared. And for all her flaws, for all the poisoned flowers she helped bloom within me, I remember the good parts, too. The important lessons that I learned, at her feet.

It is an empty irony, I reflect.
To live for the dead.

[Don Nadie]

A Terrible Thought

This time, running in earnest, I am getting a full taste of how hateful politics are. Part of me wants to send Colmes a gift for sparing it to me, the first time. There's all the hystrionics and exaggerations, the feigned offense, the hypocresy. There's the bitting of one's tongue and the holding of the reins, when an insult climbs up your throat. There's the strategic vagueness which allows people to project, onto you, their dreams and hopes. There's just a lot that, now, makes me uncomfortable. A lot I'm trying to avoid.

"You are clearly not ready to win", he said "if you have such thoughts"

His tone was saddened and weary.
An Age of loss upon his gaze.

"This one does not want you to tolerate this kind of thing"
"You are right - it is false, and wrong, and hypocritical"
"But those that use such methods, will win every time"

He paused. He looked so tall and so worn out.
Only statue, eroded by centuries of loneliness, could show such melancholy.

"Is that not a terrible thought?"

There's a lot of things that make me think of her, these days. "Last of her flock", Qari called me, the hideous little man. I think if she was here, it would be different. Easier. I would be spreading rumor, and whispering promises, and making bellows, and feigning indignation and horror. Talking more about the ills of my rivals than about my ideals.

I think if she was here, I'd be a worse person, and a better candidate.

Is that not a terrible thought?

[Don Nadie]

Win or Lose

I was feeling particularly tired, I think.
It was as though Qari's words had pierced something within.
Some inner shell which had held, behind it, hideous feelings.
And now the black ichor of it was spilling all over.

(The sense of worthlessness and of failure, spilling) So that the meeting, as I organized things (The sense of betrayal, spilling) felt both burdensome and strangely faraway (The sense of darkness, the long of oblivion, spilling) as though it was happening to some other person, while I (The heavy pull of the mizzar, and of worse things that mizzar, spilling)just turned again and again the same formless desires, (Ambition and want, spilling) the same wordless thoughts (Dissapointment, and pain, and lies, spilling) and felt the dire need to hide myself under my blanket (Long-burdening memories, spilling) and never emerge, until the World had ended.

"It's fine", he said, tenderly, "there's life beyond elections"

He smiled at me, fondness glimmering in his verdant eyes.
Then, he leaned closer. His scent was soothing, of herbs and flowers.
Even in the middle of the Souk, it made me feel a bit as though we were in a peaceful garden.
(And feel, I'll admit here, the fluttering of rare insects in my stomach)

"Win or lose", he whispered, "I'll take you for falafel"