"The Children of the Revolution" IRAQ
It was early morning February 10th and this was it, Room 908, its abandoned frying pans and empty beer bottles, another enchanting abode in the hourglass of my life. Here in this Neo-Stalinesque concrete block, somewhere amidst the unfinished curries and chicken bones, I might live to be a hundred or then again I might explode to little peices in the middle of an Iraqi night. Peter had warned me that other potential roommates had found the apartment repugnant and even fled from it with fear, but to me, it exuded a character of its own and somehow the incoming missiles seemed to melt away and fade from sight. I took off my shoes and wearily lay down on an empty bed beneath one of the bandaged windows. A mosquito whined above my head and the black and white television in the living room flickered on and off to the rhythm of the nearby air-conditioner.
