كتاب طلب صداقة

What else organizes your scattered thoughts?

This river that passes shyly... like this without turning around.

And you, you who are swaying over the flood of praises, hymns, old records, withered carpets, the shade of a faded camphor, pictures trapped in the frames, a crooked stick, the endings of broken stories, faces without features, and nostalgia that squeezes the soul, bow down as a question mark in the ashes of darkness, smell the scent of iodine, contemplate with the eyes of a child his fleeting miniatures, and prepare yourself. To cry.