[big][big][big]1[/big][/big][/big] I'm like a philistine who would gladly befriend a sculptor, A Salafist who says Good Morning to neighbouring prostitutes… Things are going well. I first knew what a landlord was in Crime and Punishment, and now I manage a block of concrete with a blockfull of migrant workers and occasional poor men in transition; same old story. I go by the code: no women allowed. (I have "a reputation to keep?" No!) The best of my neighbours would still say, "This belongs to the Egyptian." "Call the Palestinian." A force of habit. Here, names are seldom used. Things are going well. Sometimes it is, indeed, an accomplishment to get around, helping oneself, but, oh, the suffering I get from silence! I hold things inside that were never meant to be stacked: My thoughts and sentiments in limbo. It's a flower you see peaking behind the quoin, but you can't tell whether it's standing on the earth or in a pot.