in a previously vacant hall, students concentrate on passing a theory test, and as time, in a traditional clock, analogs, one person complains, accounting is the art of keeping, silent, upper classes are aware of this, the algorithm is simple, i stare, at young faces, white walls, each one promising and blank, among them one fabricates a mustache out of chemically dyed hair, someone chews on a drawstring, i see one person squeezing an inflamed cyst, there has to be a taker who doesn’t give a shit,

whose relaxed position occupies, a culture of cool, maybe this work is a path of worshipping, in hadiths, i remember, allah, the god in question, loves beauty, boredom is beautiful, and a minaret is a cohort of both, i sat there, unfaithful, outside the testing center, to gaze is to say everything in my east is east, to have is to suggest a heartland theory, to havenot is a failed state, a coup toward an aimless independence,

in this morning geography, i think of a sandstone statue who belonged to a central province, the lords filled his belly with bomb and the kids with rubbish, the dynamite that caused an outcry was the exam, in which, i came of age, and, a giant balloon soon appeared over my head, as for pay $15 an hr, fair is a child fascinated by the science of fears, guerrillas, and, not ever buying another pair of jeans,