I just read this article from the New York Times. The saxophone from the bar next door is in tune with my melancholy tonight. What happened to the ceasefire? I finished a novel today by Joanna Briscoe, Sleep with Me. It's a kind of thriller about infidelity, with a nice twist, but she uses figures of speech that are clumsy, and jar. Am also reading When the Bulbul Stopped Singing by Raja Shehadeh, but it's depressing as hell, about the second Intifada. The writer lives in Ramallah. Now I must rest for my nephews' visit.
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