Practise, write, practise. Write some more, ad infinitum.
Practise(sic) , to the grave.
Practice for the grave? It's [my] worship anyway (Maulana Rumi seems to think so).
Coffee break. Micro parole. Alfresco.
In the spring sun, thaw the icicles that form on the bones, for endeavors which demand physical stillness by stretches too long, in shadowed containers too dark.
Zainab, the neighbor, prepares the best condiments. And atchar. The word pickle just doesn't do the essence of this manna justice. She generously produces and transmutes, transmits the stuff, for my father ostensibly (I hope:)
Two slices of bread, margarine, a shard or three of brittle cheese, and some of Zainab the neighbor's green mango atchar strewn randomly, with a dash of its aromatic holding oil for good measure.
A (veritable) lucky dip. Dunked fully in the strong, new-morning-fresh drink of choice of sufis -- arabica.
And everything's OK with the world again.
PS Miles Davis, So What, playing. Delectable serendipity I mumble too, with the birds