In a week I get an operation. It’s the second operation within the space of 14 months. The summertime is a good time to heal.

I have dreamt but have not recorded the images here. I have dedicated my writing time to letters. One stamp remains. I pause.

The operations are personal. They are meant for a bombed out shell of a life. They are meant for someone who lives past the age of 92. They are not meant for me. I am still young.

I live in a peaceful place. The pine trees claim terrains. Everyone I know is possessed with the heart’s calling: to object! Conscientiously.

I live with my parents. I am the only child to live this long. My elder brothers died in childbirth. I like horses. I like tall men with long hair who play electric guitar. I don’t agree with much commentary. Except I am a follower of Marx, Trotsky and Emma Goldman. Because my father once was in combat, he is anti-war.  Today’s politics are not discussed. Sometimes I inform my mother of the Right-Wing Branding of Europe and USA. Sometimes I share that M.I.A. is my heroine. Because #muslimlivesmatter .

I would do well to encourage people to buy stamps. Especially the newest Muslim holiday stamps. To reduce harm and increase empathy.

These are days in the USA when nothing is done.

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