...a deathly serenade...

hot bed for all of society’s most precious
concepts, theories and realities. And Antonin
primarily held the theory that most enlivened the
group I knew too well: true Anarchism, in its
purest form. Though I won’t talk about this now.
B’s trivial concerns had developed by now.
—Women don’t like anything, only the sex—
Misogynistic as he could have seemed, I looked
at Leila as she gently smirked.
—It’s cold... Her voice was pregnant, marked
with an expression of distinct apathy. Severely
opposed to Lucia, I compared, whose tone in
contrast smelt of blood, but, still, an intense
hope: there was something ready to happen to
her, for the way she would give herself to
laughter, was telling, because it was a tropical
laughter with an exotic high pitch-like screech at
its most extreme. I imagined her whole body
laughing in unison, altogether distancing the
mind, body and soul especially, from what could
actuality happen to her. It could have been angst,
I thought, for in Leila, speaking in Arab, the
efficacy of these roots belied so much more than
a general apathy, but a female centric apathy and
disdain that abounded from a society of very
complicated politics—of many Arab families
consisting of a matriarchal structure superficially,
with deep rooted historical masculinity forming
its truest stronghold.
—Why you cold today so much? Said fiercely as
B swung his arm to gesticulate. What’s your
problem?
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