The sunset is a makeshift revolt, where vacillating blotches of illuminated gold blood flood the sky. The Mediterranean blushes, because shame is a revolutionary sentiment and its luxurious fluidity should be free of charge. The clouds collide, but gentle exchange wisps quietly past the explosion; the system looks cushiony and welcoming until one receives it in a swift plunging dose where millions of freezing cloudwater particles slap your numb face and roll into the infinity being created quickly above you.

The tattered boy fell out of the sky, an earthsmack sending curling clouts of dust tufts into a frantic float. He stood up, bewildered, to stagger in Palestine. His mother had been expecting him, and she had started to worry.

Another school day in the Gaza strip.