I walk through the narrow cobblestoned streets with aging buildings jutting out of the pavement at odd angles , cracks in the cement facades like wrinkles, paint faded to mimic the pallor of exhaustion, yet they remain, silent sages under the sun turning almost matronly in their knowing, hedonistic temptations of youth with the starlight.
Alcoves in the winding neighborhood offer anything from tea and water pipes to liquor and opium as innumerable feet dance above the ground to music, while countless other minds swirl below it to smoke. This is the fate of an ancient city. Drinkers dance and tempt one another with their bodies as they expand the width of their experiences, while smokers speak and tempt one another with their thoughts as they expand their minds, both fading away at a slightly faster rate than the already dead who drone on without purpose waiting until there is neither time nor energy to live, wasting the gift of consciousness, while striving for the attainment of a false memory.
Here in the land of my ancestors, where my blood sings a familiar song, the conversations over pipe call me with as much vigor from the depths of my soul as the hips of the women my body has evolved to feel. My fate dances the line of debate between gorging on one small death or the other and I'm left in the middle, wandering through a maze I know well, where the only minotaur is my propensity to fall to my insatiable urges.