Sometimes I feel the urge to say something just for myself; the wind comes, carrying my thoughts far away and casting them into a sea of stray notes. Here I stand, bearing a body—this very body wears scars, and these scars carry memories, and those memories are painful—images of blood, fire, chaos, oppression, poverty, and innocence. Here I bear a body—or perhaps it carries me—adorned with stickers of old films, much like those on the façade of the Desert Cinema.

I long to live veiled, so that the sorrowful evenings may no longer recognize me. I am among the elect of anguish and elegies; I do not wish to die now—I still yearn to experience joy, if it is indeed befitting of me. It is, truly, befitting of me.

I have lived a very quiet life, disturbed only by the daily worries and sleepless nights that plague me each evening. This stubborn body, which has forged its own path, has begun to devour itself. The doctor says that some cells consume others. How strange—I am devouring myself. My eyelids close upon the days I have lived, while I wager on their worth. I have created a beautiful world for myself, a fact that no one can deny.