“nothing comes before my art,” said richard wright, the dopest writer.

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​everything is art – the way letters are curved when writing; how gouache paint oozes on the palette, waiting to become something; the elegance of the way we assemble our attire in the morning; the smell of bread that fermented through the night, or the way we kiss our lover, over and over, until even forever says enough. 

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this is a home for wandering thoughts. and my attempt to transcribe the world, and the all-too-strange, all-too-human way of living in it.

                                                       سلام