I left my soul at an expansive place, concealed in the thick-red blood that spilled forth from my nose one early morning and unto the white frothy snow strewn over the rich brown earth.

Summer days are also beautiful, especially when monsoon rains mix this same earth with lavendar; a mixture that affects the most exquisite smell — the smell of home.

On one of these days, I ventured out and while making my way through the square I was spotted. Then the awkward salaams followed suit. “No, I’m actually from San Francisco. Oh I used to go to St— (and then I point in the direction)”.

Last night I relived this incident, brief and insignificant at the time. But this time it troubled me deeply; I had never known anyone personally that died. And I juxtaposed that event with inexistence. It confused me — I couldn’t understand, I couldn’t imagine it.