Naublus felt a rebirth coming along. His saliva tasted of it. His feces stunk of it. His eyes beamed it so that passers-by smiled at him, contrary to their usual aversion to shirts with holes in rows and hot leather pants. It was all Naublus had, but the residents of Washington Heights had no taste for fashion. And if they did, they just couldn't get Naublus' statement -- raging against the machine.
Naublus pissed diamonds and puked flower petals. Hope materialized. The fruits of mindful toil. All Naublus ever wanted -- a little peace, you know. But the skin of peace drum constantly ripped. The diamonds of his thoughts killed all rhythm. Excess breeds the death of the spirit. But Naublus refused to die. His spirit was all he had going for him.
"What's going on with me? You used to not be like this. You picked flowers in the yellow meadows, fantasizing about food. What's all this diamond mess? Why do I smell like flowers?" The questions flooded his body like the diamonds did the day before. Naublus couldn't pin down the purpose of existence. Maybe that was his problem -- he wanted to pin it down instead of let if fly. Oh, the bizarre imagery of his childhood was his umiblical cord. Without it, he would have taken hold of one of the subway trains to return to his homeland. Luckily, he still had memory.
But the question loomed: "Why did Naublus smell like flowers?" Well, it turns out that they were all part of plan. Someone had died. The radio signals penetrated Naublus' net of pimples. "Fi-f-Fil? Brother? My brother has died?" Naublus tried to make sense of the cacophony, to some avail. It was refreshing to realize that something in his life was to avail. Naublus' brother had died.
It all made sense to Naublus. He jumped on the subway train, heading home, zooming, whooshing, flying, unconsicous of all time and existence, hunger and color.
Henry, the colorful man, couldn't believe his eyes. "What's he doing?"
lunes, 12 de mayo de 2008
lunes, 28 de abril de 2008
VI
Naublus eventually tumbled into the train tracks, still rhythmically blurting out, "Wassup! Wassup! Wassup! Wassup!" His head jerked back and forth, and green, foamy pus started to ooze from his ears. He jangled uncontrollably on the tracks, like a Parkinson's-ridden hand, until his companion Snazy took charge of the situation.
"Alright, everyone, make a chain of four.
We'll pull him out of that dungeon horror!"
A 40-something year-old man in a red bandana, a 19-year-old girl, and a seven-foot giant who seemed to span all ages, joined hands with Snazy. She dove into the tracks, still hanging on to the chain, and she jostled her way to Naublus' scarred arm. She grabbed hold, and up and out they went, back to safety. It was such a close call that Lady Liberty almost shit her pants. Which would've made the situation worse because she would not have been able to rescue Naublus.
But Snazy was there, and she was all Naublus ever needed.
She skipped away to find her love. She never came back.
Naublus forgot all about her, and he went back to his spinning -- his mental spinning, that is. Down he went, riding the grey, rusted-iron spiral that moved up and down, like a cow-milking machine. Oh Naublus, why again? Why this needless anguish that only shreds your heart? Naublus began to sob. He went on for the next three hours, until about 8:00 p.m.. His head shrunk a couple of inches because of the sadness draining out of him. A smaller head, but feeling oh so much better.
Tap, tap, tip, tap, tap, tip, tip. His ears deceived him, Naublus thought. No, it was not rain. Diamonds. Diamonds! Naublus had not bathed in a diamond shower since he was a little girl in his homeland. He ran out, giddy and slobbering with excitement, into the United States of America. The diamonds tapped on his skin, stuck to it, didn't fall. On his shoulders, diamonds. On the tops of his feet, diamonds. On his tongue, diamonds. He needed more. He slid into a puddle, filling his whole being with the glimmering beauty. Oh, the satisfaction, the satiation, the fulfillment! The grey sun's light made the diamonds look like demon-fairies. They had come to rescue him from his depression. They lasted a lifetime.
Five minutes. One second. Three half-seconds. A century. The diamonds flattened out into cardboard circles. Covered in them was Naublus. Drowning in cardboard was Naublus. He thought about the murdered trees. Slashed trunks, branches made into dust. Sap spilling everywhere, baptizing the forest with the sins of industry. He flailed his arms outward, grunting a scream, ripping the cardboard off his body (it was everywhere).
"What the hell? You did not just bump into me! You did not--just bump--into ME!" A woman with a sun dress and an expression to match it was clouded by Naublus, a cloudy man himself. It was time to rain on her little parade.
Feverishly, gone mad, Naublus asked the simple question:
"Where the diamonds went?"
"Alright, everyone, make a chain of four.
We'll pull him out of that dungeon horror!"
A 40-something year-old man in a red bandana, a 19-year-old girl, and a seven-foot giant who seemed to span all ages, joined hands with Snazy. She dove into the tracks, still hanging on to the chain, and she jostled her way to Naublus' scarred arm. She grabbed hold, and up and out they went, back to safety. It was such a close call that Lady Liberty almost shit her pants. Which would've made the situation worse because she would not have been able to rescue Naublus.
But Snazy was there, and she was all Naublus ever needed.
She skipped away to find her love. She never came back.
Naublus forgot all about her, and he went back to his spinning -- his mental spinning, that is. Down he went, riding the grey, rusted-iron spiral that moved up and down, like a cow-milking machine. Oh Naublus, why again? Why this needless anguish that only shreds your heart? Naublus began to sob. He went on for the next three hours, until about 8:00 p.m.. His head shrunk a couple of inches because of the sadness draining out of him. A smaller head, but feeling oh so much better.
Tap, tap, tip, tap, tap, tip, tip. His ears deceived him, Naublus thought. No, it was not rain. Diamonds. Diamonds! Naublus had not bathed in a diamond shower since he was a little girl in his homeland. He ran out, giddy and slobbering with excitement, into the United States of America. The diamonds tapped on his skin, stuck to it, didn't fall. On his shoulders, diamonds. On the tops of his feet, diamonds. On his tongue, diamonds. He needed more. He slid into a puddle, filling his whole being with the glimmering beauty. Oh, the satisfaction, the satiation, the fulfillment! The grey sun's light made the diamonds look like demon-fairies. They had come to rescue him from his depression. They lasted a lifetime.
Five minutes. One second. Three half-seconds. A century. The diamonds flattened out into cardboard circles. Covered in them was Naublus. Drowning in cardboard was Naublus. He thought about the murdered trees. Slashed trunks, branches made into dust. Sap spilling everywhere, baptizing the forest with the sins of industry. He flailed his arms outward, grunting a scream, ripping the cardboard off his body (it was everywhere).
"What the hell? You did not just bump into me! You did not--just bump--into ME!" A woman with a sun dress and an expression to match it was clouded by Naublus, a cloudy man himself. It was time to rain on her little parade.
Feverishly, gone mad, Naublus asked the simple question:
"Where the diamonds went?"
martes, 22 de abril de 2008
V
"Flicker, flicker, the lights always flicker."
"Never, never, shall I sing, never."
"OK, OK, my lovely sweet babe, OK."
A big flashing neon sign reading "WHAT THE HELL?" flickered in Naublus' mind. Consequently, he veiled his posied scalp so that the radiation didn't reach the outside world. You see, the outside world is plotting against him. He never knows when they'll pull his big toe out or make his eyeball into jewelry. Oh, how he feared the use of his body parts! Of course, the material with which he covered them was newspaper, old, yellowed newspaper. On his feet, a pristine Caribbean beach with cannibals. On his head, a 95-year-old Holocaust survivor doing aerobics in a pink sports bra. (Naublus loved sports bras -- he stole one three years before, and he's never taken it off since). On his left hand, an advertisement for men's shaving razors. On his right, Christy Brinkley advertising the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
Naublus was proud of his attire. He thought it a testament to his creativity and eclectic taste in aesthetics. Naublus remembered the temple frescoes of his native land. The forests seemed to extend their arms to embrace him. The dizzying patterns reminded him of his mother, and the shiny turquoises, burgundies, and terra cotas matched the sprightly movement of his feet.
Naublus liked to spin in place. Often, in his corner of the SMARTA station, he would spin uncontrollably constantly yelling, "Wassup! Wassup! Wassup! Wassup!" to passers-by. The passengers thought him a mentally-ill man from the third century. Naublus kept on spinning regardless. "Wassup! Wassup! Wassup! Wassup!" As he spun, always with his left foot planted, he never got dizzy and flailed his arms up and down.
It was 5:45 p.m. Rush hour. The swarm of squirrels invaded Naublus' station, nobody looking to the side, everybody focused on the prize -- where they needed to be next. It was quite a prize, but Naublus didn't get that. Like a solo autumn leaf, a twenty-something year-old girl skipped to Naublus' corner, grabbing his hands to strike a waltz pose. She joined him in his spinning. She sang, dazed, "It's love! It's love! It's love! It's love!" She filled the half-beat that Naublus "wassup's" left blank.
"WHAT THE HELL?" Naublus mind flickered, as street lights do in the apocalypse. This girl, naive as a moth, crushed his solitude, stained it, made it bleed. It was a new life for Naublus. People could in fact exist.
Snazy and Naublus spun until the end of time.
"Never, never, shall I sing, never."
"OK, OK, my lovely sweet babe, OK."
A big flashing neon sign reading "WHAT THE HELL?" flickered in Naublus' mind. Consequently, he veiled his posied scalp so that the radiation didn't reach the outside world. You see, the outside world is plotting against him. He never knows when they'll pull his big toe out or make his eyeball into jewelry. Oh, how he feared the use of his body parts! Of course, the material with which he covered them was newspaper, old, yellowed newspaper. On his feet, a pristine Caribbean beach with cannibals. On his head, a 95-year-old Holocaust survivor doing aerobics in a pink sports bra. (Naublus loved sports bras -- he stole one three years before, and he's never taken it off since). On his left hand, an advertisement for men's shaving razors. On his right, Christy Brinkley advertising the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
Naublus was proud of his attire. He thought it a testament to his creativity and eclectic taste in aesthetics. Naublus remembered the temple frescoes of his native land. The forests seemed to extend their arms to embrace him. The dizzying patterns reminded him of his mother, and the shiny turquoises, burgundies, and terra cotas matched the sprightly movement of his feet.
Naublus liked to spin in place. Often, in his corner of the SMARTA station, he would spin uncontrollably constantly yelling, "Wassup! Wassup! Wassup! Wassup!" to passers-by. The passengers thought him a mentally-ill man from the third century. Naublus kept on spinning regardless. "Wassup! Wassup! Wassup! Wassup!" As he spun, always with his left foot planted, he never got dizzy and flailed his arms up and down.
It was 5:45 p.m. Rush hour. The swarm of squirrels invaded Naublus' station, nobody looking to the side, everybody focused on the prize -- where they needed to be next. It was quite a prize, but Naublus didn't get that. Like a solo autumn leaf, a twenty-something year-old girl skipped to Naublus' corner, grabbing his hands to strike a waltz pose. She joined him in his spinning. She sang, dazed, "It's love! It's love! It's love! It's love!" She filled the half-beat that Naublus "wassup's" left blank.
"WHAT THE HELL?" Naublus mind flickered, as street lights do in the apocalypse. This girl, naive as a moth, crushed his solitude, stained it, made it bleed. It was a new life for Naublus. People could in fact exist.
Snazy and Naublus spun until the end of time.
miércoles, 16 de abril de 2008
IV
Naublus felt empowered. His grey sun shone once again. His psyche was illuminated. His tread was sure and strong, and he stepped up into the United States of America.
"Oh, America the Beautiful!" Naublus exclaimed in a whisper. Ming Ming's: the immigrant builds a better life for himself. Washington Heights Apartments: Industry heralds an era of enlightened understanding. Oh, and the cars, the cars! America, speeding on its racetrack of glory.
"I love America," Naublus said, frowning. A gust carried the smell of fermented ginger mixed with gas. Naublus tipped over on his side, giving him a chigger's view of Washington Heights -- it looked majestic, grand, and surreal. Or was this all in Naublus' head? He scratched his head to find out, eventually ripping his scalp off.
"Naublus, Naublus, Naublus!" Lady Liberty, Naublus' precious ho. "What have you done to yourself? She sucked each jut of her crown like a popsicle, at which 55 crimson demon-fairies fluttered in. Each carried a hair, which they planted in Naublus boily, pimply scalp. As if baptized by Miracle-Gro, Naublus' crown of cell phone-black hair grew.
"There, there, Naublus my dear." Out of the grey, a huge, tornado-looking shape dropped from the sky, covering Lady Liberty. Up into the heavens she was sucked. Naublus breathed easier. Lady Liberty confirmed his love for America. Suddenly a flabbergasted tourist, he went sightseeing.
A grizzly bear of a man sold newspapers on the curb. Entrepreneurship, gotta love it. All-American.
Ahead of him, on the sidewalk, a Red Mustang jammed in a light post. The aftermath of a car crash. The diamonds on the driver especially caught Naublus attention. The high life, Mustangs and diamonds. God bless America.
Naublus could breathe again, the smog scrubbing his lungs of SMARTA air, which is really dust mixed with air.
"Oh, America the Beautiful!" Naublus exclaimed in a whisper. Ming Ming's: the immigrant builds a better life for himself. Washington Heights Apartments: Industry heralds an era of enlightened understanding. Oh, and the cars, the cars! America, speeding on its racetrack of glory.
"I love America," Naublus said, frowning. A gust carried the smell of fermented ginger mixed with gas. Naublus tipped over on his side, giving him a chigger's view of Washington Heights -- it looked majestic, grand, and surreal. Or was this all in Naublus' head? He scratched his head to find out, eventually ripping his scalp off.
"Naublus, Naublus, Naublus!" Lady Liberty, Naublus' precious ho. "What have you done to yourself? She sucked each jut of her crown like a popsicle, at which 55 crimson demon-fairies fluttered in. Each carried a hair, which they planted in Naublus boily, pimply scalp. As if baptized by Miracle-Gro, Naublus' crown of cell phone-black hair grew.
"There, there, Naublus my dear." Out of the grey, a huge, tornado-looking shape dropped from the sky, covering Lady Liberty. Up into the heavens she was sucked. Naublus breathed easier. Lady Liberty confirmed his love for America. Suddenly a flabbergasted tourist, he went sightseeing.
A grizzly bear of a man sold newspapers on the curb. Entrepreneurship, gotta love it. All-American.
Ahead of him, on the sidewalk, a Red Mustang jammed in a light post. The aftermath of a car crash. The diamonds on the driver especially caught Naublus attention. The high life, Mustangs and diamonds. God bless America.
Naublus could breathe again, the smog scrubbing his lungs of SMARTA air, which is really dust mixed with air.
martes, 8 de abril de 2008
III
Naublus isn't creating his story. No, society is doing him the favor. Society is etching, carving, scraping, scrawling his mess of a story on a grey concrete block. Naublus isn't aware of this. Or maybe he is? "Urban blight" isn't in his vocabulary. He doesn't even know the word "city." He doesn't even know the word "I."
Everybody in Washington Heights knows the world "I," but they've never heard of "O." O. Peer into it. Dive into it. "O" is Naublus, his imagination, his day-to-day life. O is the tunnel Naublus' alarm clock bullets through. O is the sun whose milky light Naublus can't quite grasp. O is soul. An empty soul? O is Naublus' yawn. O is society's yawn.
"A, E, I, O, U." String them together and sound them out, and you get a drawn-out, punch-less sneeze. Naublus' life is sort of like this. After gorging himself on the Mongolian beef he picked from the bamboo tree (this is what he thought), he couldn't have felt more unsatisfied, more inadequate. And then this woman came and gave him a sandwich? He said thank you, but he really didn't mean it. "What else am I supposed to say?" he asked himself. He slapped himself mentally for accepting the sandwich.
"What good is food anyway?"
"Why did I eat that Mongolian beef?"
"Why can I not think?"
Naublus' thoughts tumbled into an abyss of confusion and melancholy wallowing. He almost drowned, but the rush of commuters pouring out of the SMARTA train brought him back to the surface. As in a rehearsed musical number, they opened up their umbrellas - bright magentas, somber blacks, lively greens, sensual reds. Naublus hadn't feasted on so much color in a long time, and he was sure no one else noticed what a feast it was. Urban blight - of the brain. Back to life he was! He lay on the beer bottle- and cigarette butt-specked platform, below a "Clean Up, Baltimore!" advertisement. In the super-sized picture, a black woman with dreads and sparkly white teeth held the hand of a freckled, chestnut-haired boy of about ten as they walked through a M&M-green park. It was a little surreal, a little twisted, but it reflected Washington Heights' biggest selling point - diversity! That's right, diversity! Strange wonder why more middle class white liberals didn't move in.
A stubby but strong pink-skinned man lagged behind, holding hands with a Swedish woman twice his height. She donned a patterned bonnet, and Naublus recognized it as Swedish. It looked like they were on a date (or had come back from one). A dance, perhaps? Naublus thought they should've looked happier if they'd come from a dance.
"Where did y'all come from?" Naublus asked on whim. His Southern accent was also on a whim.
"It's none of your business, granny!" the pink-skinned man forcefully replied. He wasn't particularly hostile, just angry.
Naublus was above gender insults and meanness in general, so he let the whim slide. Naublus was living again, and he had no time for "fussing and fighting, my friends." He proceeded to carve a picture of a Swedish pastry on his veiny forearm with a beer bottle shard. This is living, he thought. The blood spilled onto the brown and grey platform. The drops shook and whizzed until forming the words, "Hello Naublus!" He knew it was Lady Liberty again.
He talked to her. "What you want, ho?" Naublus couldn't control his offensive slang.
Lady Liberty condensed into being, this time hanging upside down from the "Washington Heights" SMARTA sign.
"I don't appreciate your language, Naublus." Lady Liberty tried to hide the fact that she couldn't speak clearly because of the blood rushing to her head.
"Pardon me, madame," Naublus bowed his head, "sometimes I can't control myself. Lady Liberty sighed and smiled. She was right again.
Naublus then blurted out: "But you know what? You are a ho!"
lunes, 24 de marzo de 2008
II
The mustiness of the subway station reminded Naublus he was still on Earth. Sometime he forgot. Sometimes he would walk down the grey streets of Baltimore, and the gleaming sunset would transport him to the Sun, where it was nice and warm and comfortable and everyone shared food -- hummus, fried green tomatoes, chappati with cumin-sauteed potatoes, the finest Bordeaux red wines. In a most fleeting instant, he'd be on that brilliant ball, filled with nothing but light and warmth. And then -- plop! -- his cheek would scrape the wrinkly Baltimore sidewalk. "Reality, man," Naublus urged himself, "you've got to stay in reality."
All subway commuters saw of him was two pitifully beige, brown-splotched shoe soles sticking straight up like spring shrubs, forming a sort of trapezoid. At times, on their own account, the soles would liberate themselves from Naublus' shoes and glide towards the commuters, eventually hanging themselves on top of the subway doors. As the bankers, fast food workers, and random jays rushed into the airconditioned car, the soles slapped them on their foreheads. Of course, they would feel the sting much later on, when they were about to fall peacefully to sleep. Naublus had no idea this happened.
With a sad crack of his muscles, Naublus stood up, greeted the whoosh of the passing subway cars. Oh, the fresh air! Oh, morning, yes, come to Naublus, breathe in new strength to march the streets of Baltimore! Welcome back, Naublus, to life!
But what to eat? Naublus scrounged the spare platform for any bit of crystallized milk, sugar, ketchup, cheesesteak grease. No luck, only dust. He walked up the steps and down he plunged into Washington Heights, into Baltimore, into the United States of America. The first rays of sunlight shot through the clouds like needles piercing a scraggly old T-shirt. Naublus frowned. The sun did not radiate food. No, he was sure it didn't. He tried reaching for the light with his hands, wafting it into his mouth. It didn't fill him up, so onward, Naublus! Food is out there somewhere!
Out of the grey, a man resembling bamboo bumped into Naublus, breaking his slow, deliberate, yet dazed stride.
"What the hell's yer problem?" Grandma Pearl's grandson squealed.
Ding-dong. The doorbell of hunger resonated in Naublus's mouth. He pounced on the man, reaching -- yes! -- and clawing at the Chinese take-out box in his hands. With but a little struggle (the man immediately backed away), the Mongolian beef was all Naublus'. All Naublus', could you believe it?
Lady Liberty flew in, this time on a hot pink hovercraft and wielding a socker-bopper. She affectionately punched his head, softly.
"Ya did it, Naublus!" she smiled widely, her teeth, all with teeny mouths, smiling too. "I told you you'd be alright."
Heavy breathing and panting -- with tongue smacks mingled in -- were Naublus' response. He looked up, a blob of sauce suspended in the hair between his eyebrows.
All subway commuters saw of him was two pitifully beige, brown-splotched shoe soles sticking straight up like spring shrubs, forming a sort of trapezoid. At times, on their own account, the soles would liberate themselves from Naublus' shoes and glide towards the commuters, eventually hanging themselves on top of the subway doors. As the bankers, fast food workers, and random jays rushed into the airconditioned car, the soles slapped them on their foreheads. Of course, they would feel the sting much later on, when they were about to fall peacefully to sleep. Naublus had no idea this happened.
With a sad crack of his muscles, Naublus stood up, greeted the whoosh of the passing subway cars. Oh, the fresh air! Oh, morning, yes, come to Naublus, breathe in new strength to march the streets of Baltimore! Welcome back, Naublus, to life!
But what to eat? Naublus scrounged the spare platform for any bit of crystallized milk, sugar, ketchup, cheesesteak grease. No luck, only dust. He walked up the steps and down he plunged into Washington Heights, into Baltimore, into the United States of America. The first rays of sunlight shot through the clouds like needles piercing a scraggly old T-shirt. Naublus frowned. The sun did not radiate food. No, he was sure it didn't. He tried reaching for the light with his hands, wafting it into his mouth. It didn't fill him up, so onward, Naublus! Food is out there somewhere!
Out of the grey, a man resembling bamboo bumped into Naublus, breaking his slow, deliberate, yet dazed stride.
"What the hell's yer problem?" Grandma Pearl's grandson squealed.
Ding-dong. The doorbell of hunger resonated in Naublus's mouth. He pounced on the man, reaching -- yes! -- and clawing at the Chinese take-out box in his hands. With but a little struggle (the man immediately backed away), the Mongolian beef was all Naublus'. All Naublus', could you believe it?
Lady Liberty flew in, this time on a hot pink hovercraft and wielding a socker-bopper. She affectionately punched his head, softly.
"Ya did it, Naublus!" she smiled widely, her teeth, all with teeny mouths, smiling too. "I told you you'd be alright."
Heavy breathing and panting -- with tongue smacks mingled in -- were Naublus' response. He looked up, a blob of sauce suspended in the hair between his eyebrows.
jueves, 13 de marzo de 2008
I
"Oh, brilliant smokey wonder!"
He opened his eyes wide, mouth gaping, trying to absorb every single mass of gas around him. Walking forth, he slipped on a snail shell and fell and rushed uncontrollably down the yellow grass hill. He lost all sense of place, gained all sense of smell. Nothing else, just smell. He stopped, sat up, wrung his neck in stress.
Suddenly, all around him, succulent foods appeared -- Hanoi-style barbecue pork, crêpes au beurre, steaming pozole. Sizzling skillets swung around, spreading the dizzying smells. Naublus couldn't hold back. He sobbed, shaking and twitching and gasping for air. He sobbed.
In came Lady Liberty, soft-footed and graceful. "What's wrong, Naublus?"
Sobs in response.
"Give freedom time to catch up. It'll be OK. You've just hit a rut, that's all. You'll get back on your feet."
"You think so?" Naublus whimpered.
"I know so!" Lady Liberty said giddily. "I know so."
Naublus tried to muster up some hunger, but his sadness took it all away. As if sucked away by a vacuum, the Hanoi-style barbecue pork, crêpes au beurre, and steaming pozole flew back into the horizon. A chigger clawed his nostrils. He slapped it, but to no avail. He kept on slapping it, contorting his fingers into new formations to try to get the damn thing. It kept clawing. Naublus went crazy and his slaps woke him up.
He opened his eyes wide, mouth gaping, trying to absorb every single mass of gas around him. Walking forth, he slipped on a snail shell and fell and rushed uncontrollably down the yellow grass hill. He lost all sense of place, gained all sense of smell. Nothing else, just smell. He stopped, sat up, wrung his neck in stress.
Suddenly, all around him, succulent foods appeared -- Hanoi-style barbecue pork, crêpes au beurre, steaming pozole. Sizzling skillets swung around, spreading the dizzying smells. Naublus couldn't hold back. He sobbed, shaking and twitching and gasping for air. He sobbed.
In came Lady Liberty, soft-footed and graceful. "What's wrong, Naublus?"
Sobs in response.
"Give freedom time to catch up. It'll be OK. You've just hit a rut, that's all. You'll get back on your feet."
"You think so?" Naublus whimpered.
"I know so!" Lady Liberty said giddily. "I know so."
Naublus tried to muster up some hunger, but his sadness took it all away. As if sucked away by a vacuum, the Hanoi-style barbecue pork, crêpes au beurre, and steaming pozole flew back into the horizon. A chigger clawed his nostrils. He slapped it, but to no avail. He kept on slapping it, contorting his fingers into new formations to try to get the damn thing. It kept clawing. Naublus went crazy and his slaps woke him up.
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