few months ago I started to describe to people here who, in one way or another have been and are important to me. It's time to continue. Time, relentless, will not give me respite. On the horizon in June. On Saturday there was
Dalia. The poor had no farewell with hoses or tears. It is also true that he moved only fifteen miles from here, to live with their parents. He left there a year ago, and paid Korallen sought a dishwasher job. So the week went to school in Copenhagen and on weekends to work at Roskilde. Dalia
is a Muslim rebel. Her hair is covered, but his father did not tolerate the proscribed guys (why she left home.) Bring a gold medal with a verse from the Koran to protect it.
I used to go see it before bedtime. We stayed chatting in his room for hours, and you could talk to her about whatever, including rough or sensitive topics such as religion. With a cigar in his hand, told me his house in Kirkuk, the sources filled with fruit, his grandfather would wake up very early to water the plants, when he went with his friends to the ice cream. Told me about a trip he took to Baghdad in secret from their parents. And I had to when The warning sirens woke bombarded the city. His father disappeared from his life because he pursued the war, and when he reappeared he was to take it to Denmark, with her eleven years. Now is nineteen, and when once at a party someone gave the alarm of fire, she woke up with a panic attack to remember the sirens of war.
A constant theme in our conversations was a guy I was dating a few months ago, with which it fought a lot, now engaged to another girl, and she wants to distraction. Dalia have been very terrible stories worthy of the most gruesome soap opera. I have seen more times Dalia mourn smile.
Sometimes a dish cooked in Iraq, and always gave me a little. I gave the lamp that I stole into the castle of Hamlet, because when I showed it told me that the smell reminded him of his home in Kirkuk. She loved butterflies and flowers, Arabic music (I already know the sad memory of Iraq Top Forty), and Bollywood films. Dalia
liked talking to people, and falling asleep in beds outside, lulled by the voices of others and with the light on (it scares the dark). And Dalia not only speaks: listens with eyes wide open every word someone says. Dalia
is pure sweetness. Sometimes he stole cigarettes to Mary but apart from that, it was impossible not to love, it is impossible not wanting to follow and it will be impossible to forget.
is a Muslim rebel. Her hair is covered, but his father did not tolerate the proscribed guys (why she left home.) Bring a gold medal with a verse from the Koran to protect it.
I used to go see it before bedtime. We stayed chatting in his room for hours, and you could talk to her about whatever, including rough or sensitive topics such as religion. With a cigar in his hand, told me his house in Kirkuk, the sources filled with fruit, his grandfather would wake up very early to water the plants, when he went with his friends to the ice cream. Told me about a trip he took to Baghdad in secret from their parents. And I had to when The warning sirens woke bombarded the city. His father disappeared from his life because he pursued the war, and when he reappeared he was to take it to Denmark, with her eleven years. Now is nineteen, and when once at a party someone gave the alarm of fire, she woke up with a panic attack to remember the sirens of war.
A constant theme in our conversations was a guy I was dating a few months ago, with which it fought a lot, now engaged to another girl, and she wants to distraction. Dalia have been very terrible stories worthy of the most gruesome soap opera. I have seen more times Dalia mourn smile.
Sometimes a dish cooked in Iraq, and always gave me a little. I gave the lamp that I stole into the castle of Hamlet, because when I showed it told me that the smell reminded him of his home in Kirkuk. She loved butterflies and flowers, Arabic music (I already know the sad memory of Iraq Top Forty), and Bollywood films. Dalia
liked talking to people, and falling asleep in beds outside, lulled by the voices of others and with the light on (it scares the dark). And Dalia not only speaks: listens with eyes wide open every word someone says. Dalia
is pure sweetness. Sometimes he stole cigarettes to Mary but apart from that, it was impossible not to love, it is impossible not wanting to follow and it will be impossible to forget.
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