Fortune telling dreadlocks, farewells, and hallelujah

I walk into the Cabin, a hot Tuesday evening, intending on having a couple of drinks before dropping a friend of mine, Nick, at the airport to take that flight home one last time.

A "KARMA! I need you!" comes from a corner and I turn around to find another friend, a completely different Nick, is calling me.
He leads me to a table in the corner, sits me down, looks into my eyes as though he has seen the light of God and come back to tell about it, and says: "Ok. You are about to be connected to someone."
....
A slight dramatic pause, a silence, accompanied by a look on my face that can only be described as part worried, part smiling, part confused, part pitiful. The whole shebang.

"What?"

Again. He repeats. "You're about to be connected to someone... I don't know if it's bad or good, but you're going to enter some one's life and be something special to them, or vice versa.. "

I have the mentioned look on my face still, this time it's become more of a "are you crazy? I'm going to back away slowly to not startle you" look.

"What are you talking about man??"

Nick, frustrated with my "look" and my obvious disbelief points to his head full of dreads and shouts "LOOK!" firmly.

Wait. I haven't told you about Nick's dreads have I?
Oh.
Well it's a crucial element in this story, and an element worth knowing.

I met Nick G. around Christmas last year. A skinny fellow not to be mistaken for lanky, with a head full of dreadlocks (proper dreadlocks. As in Get up Stand up dreadlocks) that reached his shoulders. We shared many a drink at the Cabin, many a conversation, and eventually became good friends without the time in between. We even started a blog together.
On one of our nights conversing over a drink at the bar, I noticed a bolt in Nick's hair (yes. A bolt as in a nut and bolt). Pointing it out and laughing, Nick explained that "everything" was in his dreads and seeing that I didn't really believe him, he bent his head forward slightly so I was face to face with a mess of dreads, and started rummaging through them.
Lo and Behold. Earrings, pieces of string, bolts, beads, whatever could be put in dreads, was in my man Nick's head.
"They're souvenirs," he explained. "Bits of people that stay with me. You have to give me something for my dreads..."
I cracked up, and then noticed he was serious. I was wearing my keffiyeh round my neck, a 30 year old Keffiyeh that was once my mother's before I claimed it as my own. The years had faded out its rich black to a glorious grey, and had given it a few torn edges. One of those edges was long time tear-worthy. So, I ripped off a greedy slither off the edge, and gave it to Nick.
Five seconds later, it was on a dreadlock, claimed as mine. Beats sticking a flag in his head.

When he got back here in May, the first thing I asked him about was my conquered dreadlock, and he'd shake the left side of his head towards me till, you guessed it, my Keffiyeh strip dangled among the forest of dreads that boy has.

Coming back to my story, he had said "LOOK!"
Still with that amalgam of emotions in one expression, I went through the different dreads, Nick's hands frantically separating them also, till I found my dreadlock. Keffiyeh still there.

"Ok.. What?"

"LOOK! It's connected to another one!"

Following his fingers up the dread, I saw what he was talking about. My dread had linked to another dread all the way to the middle.

"Er. Ok?" I said, being ignorant of dreadlock protocol.

"They NEVER do that Karma. Maybe at the roots, sure. But NEVER all the way down to the lower middle."

Here, I paused. I still had that odd look on my face, and I'd held it so long that my eyebrow had begun to quiver slightly.
I'd heard of coffee cup readings, tea leaves, palm reading... But fortune telling dreads? Now, that was something.

I found myself split between two emotions.
One that told me this was as ridiculous as the fortunes in fortune cookies, the practical, down to earth grounded line of thought, and a second that was more whimsical, wishful, more willing to put faith in the unknown, the part that kept fortune cookie fortunes in my wallet whenever I felt the need.
After all, Nick wasn't just anyone. He was someone I respected, and had a feel for his spirit. I took him very seriously. And now this.

I laughed nervously. "Fortune telling dreads. Seriously dude. Come on..."

"Hey, no matter what we think, it's worth considering."

I scruff up his dreads, shake my head slightly, and get up to the bar. Yeah. Perhaps it is worth considering.

On the way there, I spy a pyramid shaped object on a table near by. My friend's bag.
It's been designed to look like those Bonjus juice pyramids. The ones that we used to drink as children that are now not as popular. Also the only juice boxes my father drank while he was in hospital before he left two years ago. It had been a sign once.
And then I realised what day it was. The 28th of July.
And as it all strung up together during that short 5 second walk to the bar, I leaned my arms against it, and heard familiar chords sound among the noise of the bar crowd. I didn't recognise it at first, and then as more and more chords strummed into place, i knew what it was.
Hallelujah. Originally by Leonard Cohen, covered by Jeff Buckley.
Hallelujah. One of my father's favourite songs. One that always, always reminds me of him, on the day I lost him.

I stood there lost in my thoughts, organising all these things that just flew at me. Before shaking it all off.

Ok. this is what must be. An odd night, high with emotions, in a Bar in Beirut, with the prophecy of companionship, a friend's farewell, and a song in the background of it all.

I turn around to join my friends and spy my dreadlock Nick, shake my head at him with a smile, whispering "fortune telling dreadlocks indeed..." under my breath.

120 stories

I saw a man, by the pond, reflecting on reflections.


We danced in the fountain, and our laughter dropped into its waters, and the ripples embraced them.



I watched the light sit on the bench from afar, and enjoyed it's company. From afar.


I carved my name in a tree. And then I carved yours. At least the tree still holds them close.


The buildings were conversing. "I've never seen you light up like that before."


I watched the ferris wheel go round and round. True, it turns round in the same spot, but its stories are never the same.

I can hear you, you know

I've decided to document things I overhear in different places, some are quite funny, others quite sad, and some just horribly out of context, although I try hard to keep them intact.

Some things are just made to be overhead.

It's all locked up in my head...

Another literal interpretation of Lebanese slang, and literally meaning "it's locked with me", "M2afli ma3i" means usually that someone's stuck, can't think. A mental block on all levels.

I once knew what this heart was for...

Not anymore. Not anymore...

Birthday letter 2009

Well, it's your birthday today.
It's been on my mind for a while, I'm not exactly sure why since birthdays were never really big for you, and after you went away, dates surrounding you aren't important to me much either.

But this year it's been on my mind. And I think its because of Time, not dates. I think now I've felt the Time. It crept up on me, I was not aware of it. Suddenly, like a tap on the shoulder I turn my head and two years have gone by.
And I realise that I miss you.
And that we have not spoken or seen each other in two years. Then again, how could we?

And, being as stubborn as you know I can be, I decided I was going to talk to you, tell you how I've been, and that it was going to be a yearly thing. there's nothing that can or should stop me.
So, on your birthday, as a gift to you I'm going to take the time to look back at the year, and tell you about it, and tell you of things I've thought about or done. You not being here doesn't have to stop that. You're still my father after all, and maybe by writing it out and asking things I want to ask, I'll hear your voice in reply somewhere in my mind. Sounds a bit silly no? No, of course not.

I took a big jump this year baba. I don't know if the jump was right or not, and I've come to believe that there is no such thing as a right or wrong. It just leads where it does. It's not the jump that matters, but where you land. I haven't landed completely yet, but I've taken the jump. I decided to pause my life as a typical graphic designer. I've realised I don't like the corporate world, and the job it inscribes to me. This makes me remember when i was into my second year at AUB, and you told me how you would have preferred I'd gone into architecture. I got so angry! How could you, a graphic designer, tell me, a graphic design student, that! Maybe because you were feeling then, what I felt now, although I really doubt architecture would have been the way to go.
Anyway.
I decided to stop the cycle. I was not enjoying my work, and I realised that i was being drained by it all, and my creativity was waning. I was tired, and the weight in my head was getting heavier.
So I'm going to Australia for a bit.
Crazy I know, but perhaps not as crazy as one would think. When I went there a bit more than a month ago, i was lucky to be in the presence of people who spoke to this part of me. I had conversations with strangers about one's essence and need to do what they feel deep down they must be doing. to not fear failure, and just follow one's heart and instinct. I have a feeling I need to be concentrating on my writing, and my art, and my creative outlets, and the atmosphere there as well as the people I was lucky enough to be around seem to be the perfect medium for it.

Thank you for the sign by the way.
I got it loud and clear, and I'm sure this is where I'm supposed to be now. And I'm sure if it is, you know that already.

I'll probably take small jobs bar tending or waitressing (I'm sorry, I know you never liked me to do those but have faith in my up bringing. I do), or maybe even design freelancing. Whatever comes my way to make my ends meet while I concentrate on satisfying this part of me is up for grabs. The corporate machine can wait. I'm making it wait. It's now or never.

But I'd also be lying if I told you I was not a bit scared. All this confidence I have in voicing my plans collapses sometimes, and I feel like huddling and staying close and just falling into line. But I suppose fear is meant to do that. But it's not for too long, and whatever happens during my stay in Australia, it'll be something that I'll learn from.

Did you used to feel alone? Regardless of having mama and I and anyone else who meant anything to you around? I do sometimes. I thought about it the other day. The stereotype of the artistic mind, the creative personage who is tormented by their thoughts and their inability to produce at the pace that their mind works. The inability in making it clear to those around how they think, or express and how this leads them to shutting the world out, and isolating themselves. I said this to a friend of mine, and he wondered how I could feel this way, considering the amount of friends I have. I told him its not about the friends you have around you, but how you feel inside. Sometimes I come back from a night out spent laughing and enjoying myself, but I get in the car and it's like I'm another person. I cannot smile, and I feel like it was not worth the time or effort. That I did not learn anything new. And I feel alone and disappointed with myself, as though I have not been true to myself. I started to think if you felt this way. I never stopped to notice if you had that in you, if I've gotten it from you, inherited this weird feeling of being a part of many scenes, but the one that matters the most feeling lacking, and unaccomplished. I'm so sorry if you felt that way. At least now I can tell you that I understand.

I wonder how different I am now, then I was when you saw me last. Not in appearance, but in attitude. I wonder if I'd surprise you, if you'd be happy, or proud. I'm sure that sometimes I do things, or act in ways that I know would instigate that look you sometimes give me that spells out "you know better than that", and I do, but I'm trying.
I'm noticing more and more things that I do, mannerisms, or ways I think, or talk, that reflect you strongly. I remember when you first left, how I once froze solid when in the middle of a conversation with someone, i clasped my hands together behind my head, leaning back with my legs crossed, and continued the conversation. This was not something I'd ever done. This was your seating position, not mine, and although it startled me, it also comforted me that you were coming through in all sorts of ways. I find so much comfort in that. I even think twice these days (Sorry Bob), once for me, and once for you, regardless the situation. I ask myself twice, and in my head my voice comes through, and I try to imagine what you would say. I try my best, I really really do.

I am realising now that this letter idea is more than I thought it would be. I'm writing and writing, and although I've told you a few things, there's so much more to talk about,
but it'll have to stop here for now. Till next time.

Here's to another year. Here's to moving forward and taking you along with me. Here's to you, and mama, and everything in between.

Happy Birthday baba.
I love you kteer kteer.

Karma

The man's got a tin can for a head.

Literally.
"Leish rasak mtannik?" is a slang phrase in Arabic (well, Lebanese) that refers to someone whose stubborn for no legitimate reason, boxed in, and unwilling to be receptive.
"Mtannak" comes from the word "Tanak" , which means tin, usually tin can. I decided to start a series of illustrations depicting literal translations of phrases such as this.
Procrastination hold your ground, come not near here.

Wish me luck.

Dream Sketch #7 ~ Another way to feel alone

Working overnight...

... just like I used to do when I was in university. Just like I was the night I started this blog. So much has happened since, so many things. I feel like going through all the writing I have on here, and trace my life through a cyber window, see how I've changed, if i have. See who has affected me, and why. See what I have to say about everything, and what that says about me، see where I'm going.

But I won't.

I'm going to hide behind the excuse that I have to finish this rushed job before I hear the neighbours rooster crow in a couple of hours. Of course, I could tell you that I'm scared of seeing myself in chronology, just like someone is fearful of putting his hand into a dark strange box. What if I don't like what I was, and I disappoint myself again? Or what if I find I've arrived nowhere? No no. Where's that excuse I needed? Ah yes. I need to work. Maybe I'll look through that window some other day, but not today.

I'm up after all the beings on this side of the earth have fallen asleep, and all the beings on the other side have begun to go about their days. And all I can think of is the next entry I want to write. Musha is sprawled on the floor, her paws crossed, and her muzzle twitching slightly every once in a while. I wonder what dogs dream about...

That excuse is becoming the elephant in the room. I guess I have to get back at it.

Good old days at the studio overnighting with everyone, smoking cigarettes, going crazy once in a while, and drinking diet Pepsi till my brain began to make that fizzing noise. I miss that.

There's the Mosque calling to prayer. The rooster's cue is in a bit.

Till the next post. A tout a l'heure, and goodnight.

(And seriously... what do dogs dream of?)

Hula Hoops and Pavement Tiles

I remember hula hoops.

I remember how adamant I was as a child to master the art of hula hoops. And I did.
I used to run out at recess, hurry to the back playground where all the toys were, and grab the lime green one. Nearly always the lime green one.
With a shove of the plastic circle in one direction, and my hips in the other, I could go on for hours if I was allowed it.

I remember hopscotch too. And that game that resembled cats cradle but instead of on our hands, elastic was stretched between the legs of two persons, and we would jump over and on the elastic, and do all sorts of crazy moves till we tripped up or ruined the pattern.

I remember all these things. All those days before I knew any better.
I say "better" but I don't know how much I believe that. Why is it "better"?

Those were days before I knew anything of sorrow, or death, or wars. Before I could understand what depression was, what loneliness was, what agonies failures and disappointments brought. Before honesty was scarce and caused complications instead of simply being the truth. Before I felt the weight of a broken heart, or the cold shiver a betrayal can give. Before I knew anything of life and all its onerous baggage.

Maybe back then was better after all.

So I suppose it should make sense to you when I do "childish" things. When I run through sprinklers, jump in puddles when it rains, pretend that the existence of humanity depends on my not stepping on the lines in the pavement tiling. When I feel like flying a kite, or hiding behind trees, or making shadow animals in the middle of a projected class presentation.
I love doing all those things. It makes me feel happy, free. For a tiny bit I'm granted the peace I once had, cradled in the arms of naivety. I feel invulnerable, and untouchable. I feel, if only for moments at a time, that I didn't grow up too fast. And why not?

I'm with Tom on this one. "I don't wanna grow up".
Shame I didn't realise it before I did; before I forgot how to spin a lime green hula hoop on my hips.

Dream Sketch #6 ~ Dreams of something

Dream Sketch #5 ~ Nightmares are better

Dream Sketch #4 ~ Happiness and the sea

The little things

What is it about silly romantic B- movies that can make someone like me, whose skin has been thickened by many an ordeal and considers herself a strong person to tear up silently?

It must sound ridiculous, to tear up at an imaginary situation, with imaginary characters, and an imaginary love. But that is, alas, the case.
A fantasy of sorts, having someone be head over heels for you, setting up the building roof with lights and a dinner to surprise you, leaving notes where they know you'll find it, walking the extra mile to show you they would do so for you, simple gestures, glances, touches that fill the heart like nothing else does.

Despite the ridiculousness of tearing at a B-movie, I've come to realise that it is not as a sign of weakness or naivety. No. On the contrary, it is a sort of mourning, a wish, an extra jolt of adrenaline in the race to the end. The race to being happy with your heart. After all, it is at the core of you, literally and metaphorically. It's a reminder in a way, of what some of us really would like to feel.

"But these things don't happen in real life."
Perhaps not always. But aren't movies supposed to be imitating life? Someone must've done it, or thought it, or seen it happen for them to write it up, cast it, direct it.

I don't know why I'm writing this post, I don't know what compelled me to write it. But I suppose this is just what this blog is for...

So why not fall into the moments of "you complete me" and "olive juice" and guitars in front car seats and take them for what they are ...

After all, it is the little things that count.

Shooting stars

He sat on the edge of the world, hands by his sides, his legs swaying slightly back and forth.
The scene before him was breathtaking, the sun rolling under the curvature of earth, staining the sky shades of yellow, orange, red, purple, till it hit a deep lilac and then a blue of night ever so rarely noted.

But despite it all, his face had a subtle sadness in it, only visible in the slight sloping of his eyebrows, the gentle dip of his lip edges, and the light creasing of his forehead. His wings were folded neatly, the feathers clean and slick, a silver radiance reflecting the vanishing light.

As a sigh escaped his being, he looked down at the stars that twinkled awake in the new born darkness, and started to count the shooting stars.
He whispered names as they streaked by, each one weighed down in its letters, falling one after the other, tumbling from his mouth to nowhere the eye could see. Each ending just as the their corresponding trail of light withered and extinguished.

More than a few names later, he brought up one leg onto the ground, pushing himself up with his arm till he was fully stood, head still slightly lowered towards the ether. His wings shivered slightly, ruffling in an attempt to relax.

Burdened, and tired, he rubbed his face, sighed once more, and accidentally allowed a tear to escape and roll down his face.

I cannot do this anymore, forgive me, he whispered this time louder than before, looking to his right.

Without even flinching, his wings opened up suddenly, the fronds of feathers unhinging and separating in what seemed like a couple of movements till they were full breadth. They embraced the breeze in their stalks, giving it a slight whistle.

And he fell.

He did not jump head or feet first, he simply fell forward, allowing the arms of gravity to pull, and the blanket of wind and cloud to envelope him.

Faster and faster, his fall took him, till he was blurred. Faster and faster till he burst into a flame, a flame brighter than ever.


In a garden, a girl laying on the grass suddenly smiled and pointed at the sky.
"Look, a shooting star!" she exclaimed, a smile gracing her lips, its light mirrored in her eyes briefly before being claimed by the night.

Dream Sketch #3 ~ Doomed to dream

Bruise beautifully

You bruise beautifully baby.
Rainbows line your skin
Under the darkest of skies, the fullest of moons
Is there gold at the end you think?

You bruise beautifully baby.
Every cloud has a silver lining
A bit of colour in a world of black and blue
See? You do it without even trying.

You bruise beautifully baby.
Wipe the tears from your eyes, because
at least you bruise beautifully baby.

Dreams of cars and snow and crashes

I had a dream last night.
It was more like a nightmare.

No monsters, no demons, just enough discomfort to make me twist and turn till the anxiety finally sprung my eyelids open at 2 a.m in the morning.

I had a dream about driving, I had a friend in the car, someone I hadn't seen for a while, and someone who had caused some discomfort in recent months.
I was driving my car, going somewhere I'm not sure where. And I was speeding slightly, the feeling was that I had to get where I wanted to go.

I'm winding on mountain roads, and there's snow, and for some reason this surprises me, and I attempt to slow down. But it's too late, the car is swerving and twisting left to right to left, and I have no control whatsoever. I can tell there's not enough momentum to gravely harm me or my friend, but the car becomes a priority, and I'm worried about hitting it badly.

By the time I get the car under control, it's only a few minutes before once again the car is beyond any command. And the feeling was horrible.

I see the edge of the road, and it looks like I'm headed there, a cliff that overlooks a deep deep ravine, and the only option I have is to crash into a parked car.

And I do. I get out of the car, look at the damage, it's been destroyed from the left side. My friend gets out of the car inspects the car, and begins to talk to onlookers who have come to check on us.

It's snowing, and cold, and I realise my car is missing wheels.Three in total. This takes over my thoughts, and I begin to look at the road we had come from, skid marks in the snow, wet dirty slush christening the slight uphill, and someone shouts that one of the wheels is further down. I run down, my breath fogging up and drifting into my eyes, cold wind pinching my cheeks.

I see one wheel on the side of the road, and its dismantled into two parts. I may not be a mechanic, but I know wheels don't do that. The inner balloon tube is a weird flower shape, and as I look on, I find another one of the inner tubes off the road, dangling from a tree coming out from the side of the mountain.

What exactly possesses me to reach for it, I'm not sure, but the next thing I know, I'm kneeling on the snow on a cliff side, the cold damp seeping through my jeans, reaching out for it.

I can hear my breath, and the warm blood pulsing through my neck as I stretch and stretch and I feel feeble and weak and I begin to lose balance. The anxiety of being in a car crash is adding up, images of my car side crumpled, the fear as I attempted to keep it all together, the helplessness. I'm upset, and distressed, and I wake up.

My phone is blinking blue, I check and find a message, reply in a groggy daze that I just had a nightmare, and turn over to my other side, thankful that my car is parked at the end of the road, thankful that it's not snowing, and thankful that I woke up before I felt any worse.

I read that among other things, dreaming about car accidents is a sign that one feels they are not in control of their lives, or a situation, whether the situation has or will happen.

Why are my dreams telling me what I already know?
A rude awakening at 2 a.m. doesn't make things any clearer, just more disturbing, with a twist in the stomach and slight fear as a cherry on top of a rotten dessert.

I guess I'll be more careful driving my car these next few days. And I'll check my wheels too.

Little Miss Muffet in the desert

In this city of sand and fake life, I sit in the peculiar cool of building shade. The trees they stand tall, but despite being real, they seem frozen and a sham, green statues unhappily planted in pots and plots cut out of concrete, forced to bring a bit of green and verve to a metal and glass kingdom built of dreams bought by clammy back pocket wallets.

The people they are like the trees somehow. It's a weird sensation to walk here a visitor, among those who live here. They function normally, almost too normally. Stepford wives with a damning and horrible twist. Perhaps this is just my feeling. I'd rather not find out.

I sit on the patio furniture that's orphaned from an actual patio, and listen to my music, drowning out the talk of work, social scandals and sighted fashion faux pas', sipping on a milkshake with artificial berry flavouring.

"And along came a spider and sat down beside her..."

It must've landed on my hand from a grey office windowsill, craving a bit of warmth, a tiny little thing, with 8 legs that wouldn't measure up to a fingernail. And I crack a smile.

It walks around the playground of my hand, as I twist and turn my wrist to keep it in view and keep it level headed. Even spiders feel gravity.
It sits on my tip of my finger and decides to change the scenery, but not leaving me completely, it dangles on its silk, weaving it slowly to gain momentum, and hey presto, a swing set to go with the palm playground. I hold it up and watch it shorten and lengthen its rope to swing smoother in the light breeze.
Thinking it perhaps would like to get off this merry go round of a ride, I offer it a table top, but the glass is not as appealing, and it scurries up its life line towards my finger. Fair enough spidey. Fair enough.

It takes a few more strolls along my love line, my health line, a little promenade on my soul line, and life line before once again venturing to the edge of a digit and dangling for a quick swing.
This time, I need to let it go.
I place it softly on a fake straw chair, and it reluctantly disappears among its weaves, once again to roam a fake plastic, metal, and glass jungle, an ambassador of what is real, a lion among cats.

Time to look for another real Little Miss Muffet.

Try a little tenderness

"Remember that guy I once told you about? The one I had the thing for a few months back, but ended up giving up on? The guitarist?" she asked, reclined on my sofa, smoking a cigarette with the TV mumbling in the background.
"Yeah, I think so. The one that started as fun, but ended up turning emotional." I replied, taking a sip of my tea.
"Yeah.. ha, him. Did I ever tell you about the time we ended up making out against his car one night?"
"Which time would that be?" I smirked. Yeah, so it was a cheeky response, but she and I were friends enough to let things like that slide.
"Funny. You're funny. Anyway, he said something that night. I still think about it sometimes." She paused for a second, as if just mentioning this spun her into a spiral of thought about that very same thing.
"We had stumbled out of the bar near that restaurant on Hamra street. It was near to 3 a.m. and he offered to drive me to my car. What a lame excuse for a goodnight kiss if you ask me, but the mood was right, and he was a sweetheart, so we walked towards his car, and well, ya da ya da ya da, I pulled him towards me and we sorta fell onto the side of his car. We kissed and stroked and well, you don't need all the details, you've done it before..."
"Of course... so? What's the point of your mini risque story?" I interrupted.
"Well, there was a moment where I slid my hands under his shirt, and caressed his back, and sides. Softly. There wasn't anything very animalistic about it you know?" She took a drag of her cigarette, and I heard the slight crackling of the tobacco. "He stopped, pulled his head back and looked me straight in the eye, smiled slightly and stroked my cheek with his hand, so I asked him what was wrong, you know what he told me? He said no one had shown him tenderness like that before. It practically made me flinch in shock, and then I felt sad for him, you know? Can someone really not feel simple tenderness before? I mean, is it even possible?" Her eyes and tone became twisted with confusion and slight melancholy.
"I don't know... I suppose yes, at the same time no. I guess it shouldn't be possible to never experience that sort of basic affection, but surprisingly, a lot of people don't." I say, and realise how scientific and dry I sounded.
She turned out her cigarette in the ashtray on the low table in front of her. As she blew the smoke in a straight stream that slowed and dissipated closer to me, her mouth curved slowly downward, and once again, I lost my friend to thought. Her eyes were a tell tale. They slowly strained with sadness, and as they fluttered slightly, I saw her lower eyelid line with silver.
"I think that's the saddest thing I've ever heard..." she said still staring into the space in front of her, heavy with remnants of smoke, before turning to look straight at me and continuing "..right?"
I sighed softly, and felt the burn of her question.
"Yea... it is. It really is."

She straightened up, stood, and walked out onto the balcony letting some fresh air in.
And in the sunlight, she lit another cigarette, and looked up at the sky.