there was a dark skinned boy laying on his back in the pond. he looked up at me as i drew near. but you used to hate me, he said. no, i replied. i never hated you. i only hated myself. he stared at me with interest. i never hated anyone, i continued. no one has been unkind to me.
i awoke and went to the door. pink and red clouds danced and flexed formidably behind the glass blue mountains like heaving muscles. had i been deluding myself? abbas walked along the banks of the river. he took lots of pictures, of the winding rained-upon paths, of the reflection of trees in the water. a single tree is more of a tree than a number of them, he told me. i instantly understood. we walked for a long time, chatting idly. we passed a man and abbas said good-morning to him and we chuckled because it was nearly evening and he probably thought we were crazy. the sun was setting and abbas breathed in deeply and grinned, with such fresh air one cannot help damaging his lungs a bit, and he lit a cigarette and we stood in the path and he took some more pictures of the royal sun setting.