and the coffee punches you in the face.
where a poorly mounted douche spout smacks with force into the back of
your scrotum. ouch.
where chicha flavours colour the cityscape and slow time.
where an out-of-date hard-hat is sufficient for a motorbike helmet.
where icecream never, ever, ever (forever ever) tasted so good.
where you are not a person unless you have some form of religion, and
yet only Islam, Christianity, or Judaism are counted.
Cairo. The city couldn't stop screaming if it tried. it is an endless
mosaic of influences, where the brain twists trying to comprehend its
scale. like a lyric penned by Don Van Vliet, only the authors of this
preposterously verbose sensory overload understand its true form.
random turns leave that whooshing feeling of time travel, only to be
abruptly woken by another coffee.
it's impossible to colour between the lines in Cairo. i've been
trying, and now i need a new set of pastels. and another pink
guava...
hugs and love
joe
