...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
pieces of chicken and serving it with a few loafs
of pitta bread. He didn’t offer me any food
perhaps as I doubted he knew the full extent to
who I was, although he was so impassioned by
the topic of Berberism that I thought he was just
lost in the song of his thought. I could barely
smell this food. We continued to talk, ignoring
the necessity to have conversations about Lucia,
until he mentioned that he needed to go, a little
after he had finished eating. It had been a few
days since I had been to my own place. I owed
Yasin money so I decided I would walk back,
taking the time to appreciate my surroundings,
especially because it was during the night. Even
in the dark I kept noticing bits of debris—these
random fragments with stories of their own.
Eventually I arrived back to my building, where
there were three men standing outside, I
noticed. They were speaking in French and
smoking cigarettes. As I was walking past the
three men were staring at me, I nodded my head
slightly, only the one man stood wearing a black
leather jacket nodded back, the other two just
continued to stare, even the one wearing the
Kufi. In the lobby I didn’t hear or see Yasin, and
assumed he was somewhere else. I then walked
up the stairs to my room. She was just sitting
against the door just looking down at the floor,
and so I was taken aback, mostly with the
thought of B in my mind. —Leila. What are you
doing here? She didn’t bother to quickly get up,
and just stuttered: Where... have you been? I
hadn’t thought about her situation much that
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