I feel like I should be writing more, with all of the stimulants around me, but I haven't been. I feel like I should be writing about the people on the streets, women draped in drab fabrics, faded blacks, taupes, and grays, concealed behind sheets, blending into the dust and grime that passes for the road. People line the gutters, hands out to flag a tiny already full bus, the sound of horns moving the air around them. Bruises on the foreheads of the men are worn as ornaments of pride, odd shaped green or blue bumps on tanned skin from prayer. The streets close to allow men to pray, spilling off of the sidewalk and into the path of cars, the Qa'ran being sung as crowds kneel on soft carpets, shoes tucked neatly to the side; the small shoes of a boy dwarfed next to those of a man. I seem to want to write the most when I am hidden away on my ride to and from school - an air-conditioned fish bowl. Goats being loaded into the bowls of passenger busses, trucks stacked with bags of bloodied animal bones, a young boy perched atop the back of a vehicle carrying a rifle proudly. I see the ribs of more horses than I can count, pulling carts of onions, bananas, watermelons, and children. From my hidden away spot, listening to the hissing of the Qar'an on the radio, the sea on one side, crumbling brick buildings on the other, sometimes it seems like everything is perfect, and that I love this city. That I love the ghosts of these women, and the dirty hands of these children, and even sometimes the men crouched against buildings, smoking and laughing with each other. Sometimes.