the Phlog

It was April 13, 2008, and I was at the end of a dead-end road, desperately looking for inspiration up a mountain. Instead, I found the kind of sickly washed out, tepid light that makes one’s insides churn and camera sensors hunt. I sound Salma sitting by herself with firewood for company, Suleiman, who left home when he was 13 and returned an old man, and Hamed, looking for his goats across the mountains through binoculars, as if it mattered any more.