I remember the streets of the distant homelands I never belonged to.
I sit on my bed, legs crossed and torso bent over them. The windows are open and sun and breeze run around my room. I look at my computer in front of me, hitting refresh on twitter and facebook and switching between IMs and IRC.
This is what a disaster looks like. This is my tragedy.
A month, and a poorly chosen angle.
Row after row on the other side of the bus is lit by milky white and pale blue of computer screens. Row after row on the other side of the bus is full of people on facebook.
My father puts a cd in the player. He hits the small orange lit button tothe large black amplifier. He sits me in the middle of the room, on the floor, and hands me a CD case. The paper inside of it is red. He hits play and something about the world changes.