But I must return to the story.
9 December 2024
Journal
Tomorrow, we’ll bid farewell to Campulung, that small and grey town that seems to cloak its daily toil in a hushed breath, hidden from view. Twenty-four thousand residents orbit their routines, twenty second-hand clothing shops, five funeral parlours, and one long road that curves at its end into total darkness, as though disconnected from everywhere else...(read more)
Poetry
When I grow old, I want white hair.
Grey hair is fine too, but I want white hair.
I want to cross the streets with a long, impressive veil of age.
White is a bride. White is the Sabbath. White is Yom Kippur, a day of atonement.
When I grow old, I want white hair.
Even if it is dry and dull, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it is white.
White like the moon, white like jasmine blossoms. White like a sleepless night.
Sometimes I’ll braid it into a plait, and it will be long, and it will be white like a ship’s rope.
When I grow old, that’s what I want—white hair.
White like the pillow it will fall onto at night, likely unseen.
But I wouldn’t want it to fall out too quickly or too much, because then none would remain.
Yet I also wouldn’t want it to fall out too slowly or too little, because that means it’s healthy, and healthy hair—darkens.
When I grow old, I want white hair. But grey hair is fine too.
Updates
7 October 2024
On this sorrowful day, a year after the horrific massacre, I wish to extend my condolences to the entire people of Israel.
Fiction
