We're deep in the pit of the flu season--at least in my head we are--so I've been thinking about obituaries. It's a Jewish thing, I suppose, to worry about death on a crisp November morning as the birds make their joyful noise outside my window. Shut up, birds.
Despite the traffic jam in my nose, I don't fear that death is imminent--I haven't felt that way since a cement-faced Palestinian security prisoner told me in broken Hebrew that he would really enjoy, if it is no bother, to stick a shwarma knife in my eyes.
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Prisoners
