Haven’t you always wondered what brewed in the open meadows of jasmine and saffron flowers?

It’s too bad they’re littered with shrapnel and other inorganic contraptions that’d make you taste bliss a little too soon. And permanently.

Face down towards the wooden table, you’ve dozed off from studying. You’re out here because no one wants to see you like this, all studious and ambitious. Act your place, they say, and get your head out of the clouds. The only justice that should exist in this world – in your family’s world – are the eyes that leer from golden-trimmed drapes and cradles.

You’ve never cared for the smell of kabob – you’ve never tried it – but something entices you about the tender blend of charcoal and the scant smell of lamb. It’s just something so unheard of and vile, but deliciously scandalous to sink your teeth into. Proverbially, anyways.

Analytical reasoning. What is this psychobabble, anyways? Is this one of those fancy ways of saying, “pondering”? Why do schools have to formalise the ability to ‘know’?

The sweet smell of honeysuckles. Yep, they grew those here. You’re enticed by the delicate brushing of branches, aren’t you? Swaying so gently like a Brazilian samba – or what you’ve read about. It’s colourful in this war-hewn city, isn’t it?

It’s getting dark. You ought to pack your bags up. Not much studying done, but that’s okay. Nature is too beautiful to miss a moment of. After all, isn’t this what you’re really living for?