VII

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?"