Our village is engulfed in flames; how are you, my brother?
The sound was blaring from the speakers. The old biddy packed her clean clothes into one suitcase, just enough for a couple of days. Which turned into five years. She never returned. Nobody ever returned. Today they rot, alive or dead, in distant cities, unwanted at their families’ or children’s homes, lying on beds in hallways, hoping that their nighttime coughing would conceal their even louder dog-like whimpers, the ones that follow a shit-smeared boot’s kick in the ribs. There are no heroes or winners. There are just those who rot and who build houses in wild colours and pay off their drunken cousins’ debts. There are no winners except those who erect temples to their foolish vanities, knowing very well that they have nothing except a well-guarded and trenched-in secret.