Salam Aleikum

Salam Aleikum,
Afel Bocoum.

I never knew the world was full of chin-up bars; I've taken up tree-climbing to the music of Afel Bocoum, on whom I spent ten dollars today--the world is a playground when you're barefoot in shorts and a t-shirt, one may run and leap anywhere, as long as one watches for green chips of broken glass so eagerly waiting to bury themselves in soft human flesh. I'm climbing the budding trees!--the little reddening buds bobbing upagainst the deepening blue of the sunny grand sky!

I spent a few days adventuring in the city mostly but not entirely by myself, and listened to Buribalal all the while, so now whenever I return to that perfect song from a perfect album ("Alkibar") I see visions of buildings moving against one another, foregrounds on backgrounds on foregrounds on backgrounds, windows lit-up, the snotty snaking lights of blurring cars, and I feel the cold snot running from my blushing nose, rubbing it off my pathetic mustache; I was honked at by several taxi-cabs, who were not flirting with me, as you no doubt suspected; I am not enough of a New Yorker to scream at them or shake my fist, but I am an outsider, as always, and as an outsider my place is to nod and smile in the face of the opposition, the sansaran gamers of life, who just don't get it (though that's not to say I don't get it either--the difference is that I know I don't get it!).