Fishing in Beirut

The sun rises in the east, and sets in the west. The west is the dying part of the earth, although the opposite appears to be the case. He is comforted by this thought. The west is full of poison, is ravaged by its lust, is slowly disappearing like an image from its screens. He’s aiding an unstoppable process.
He moves away from the window. He flicks his cigarette. As it falls to the street below, the last smoke leaves his body and mixes with the air. The air and Lebanese sunshine. He eats some drying bread, and lights another smoke. Smoke is good for thinking.
Walking in the mornings gives him lightness in his head. Idle wandering in the quartier. There are streets he always returns to, streets he knows like his hands. Avenues. He has circuits that he uses, routes planned in his head, and every single morning he can choose a different one.
A pattern.
Every day is similar, and this is how it is supposed to be. There are few deviations. Stones are in the same place each time he passes. The objects never change. Parked cars, registrations plates, sundry decorations in windows and on doors. People. He’s ghost-like as he passes, shrouded by belief.
Sound commands his focus. The noise of traffic, voices, his own feet as he moves. Birdsong. He listens with attention, walks slowly, and sometimes rolls his fingers, like two spiders on his arms. Arachnid wrist attachments.
Djinn is always thinking of the work he’ll carry out. Perfecting by modification. The plan bounces and rolls in his brain; becoming, changing, real. He holds it like a prayer. On the rooftop in the evenings he whispers what he’ll do. What Allah will do through him.
The sun sets while he watches. Slowly, by degrees. Over time the roof-light changes, shadows falling, lengthening. Temperature goes down. He gives a tiny shiver, but stiffens his muscles to prevent it further. He’s tense as night takes over.
The devil of the west, and the irredeemable wrongs. The sacrilege. He broods on retribution, on the details of the plan. He works and re-works the motions. All around the air is cooling, and his body is a bowstring, holding off the chill. The roof and he are welded.
He has right upon his shoulders. Purpose. He walks the streets, watches the sun, smokes. It’s all prologue. It’s a training ground, a readying, a filing down of matter not needed by his soul. An unburdening. As he stands upon his rooftop, every night is the same, but he can feel within him how the time is drawing near. His eyes close.
There is a near imperceptible wind on his face. Like child’s breath. It massages his forehead and cheeks, in tiny constant jets. He’s motionless. When the student is ready, the Master will appear. He’s a statue on the roof, awaiting divine instructions.
He’s eating some bread made with raisins. He’s smoking his last cigarette. The birds are still singing, the apartment’s been sold. He’s looking at ways of getting to Paris.