After a while, the words seemed to lose their meanings, turning into illustrations on the paper that resembled nothing I recognized, except for the small gaps between the words; they reminded me of Abed's orderly graves. The tiny dots above, beneath, and beside the letters — don't they resemble drops of blood? Dripping one after another from Abed's sharp knife. Alongside them, the lines flow, cascading and swirling like his hair I recently cut, and blood dripped from it onto my lap, within my mind, in every direction my eyes looked. I closed my eyes, shut the book, and held it to my chest. No more blood! Yet, the blood diminished, turning into the sound of men's footsteps on the tree-lined path to Om Gibran's house, echoing in the curves of my mind, morphing into their last breaths. Then a rustling, the rustling of bags covering their large bodies. The trees' rustle curses them and us, the wheel of the cart whizzes, the pickaxe digs. The earth, the wind, and everything in between, then the clock... tick tock... tick tock... Abed's keys scratching the metal around the opening, turning and ticking... how did the time pass? Publishing house: Dar Tashkeel Publishing and Distribution Number of Pages: 220 Year of publication: 2018