There is a place far from here. You’ve been thinking about the place since you sat in a geography lesson in high school and turned to a page in the middle of the book, a place where you could make a life for yourself, a quiet place with coral reefs and small islands. That the place should appear right in the middle of a book about places you misinterpret as a sign, a middle where your other life can begin.
It’s finally time to leave. You have your bags ready, no cash, no map. Responsibilities left behind. What’s this exuberance? This ongoing thing. You wake up in a poem by Stegosaurus, and the pianist is a man who looks like your father, whose face you can barely remember.
What’s this about the progeny not recognising the face of its own? You are a mirror image of him, your father, as soon as the moustache grows. Back to this place with fishermen and unattended dhows, tiny squids waiting for the tide to sweep them back to the water.
You have been reading a book about phallic symbolism, so let us consider the miniature squid as a metaphor.