drawing, Memories, Loss

I remember

Damascus — They were in a cardboard box in my mothers basement, thrown together with a rubble of things that once had held meaning to me but now seemed irrelevant: various books and articles I’d saved from my days at the university, an ugly wooden mask that a friend bought me from some tourist trap in Tanzania, a red Chinese jewellery box with little trinkets in, a small brick (?) and a poster of arabic call...