The hills are alive

No music permitted here, other than from the muezzin, but the desert manages to echo Leonard Cohen in spite of it.

There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.

Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free.

This is a fairly heavy gauge wire, washed in from who knows where. The bird struggled to stay on, but after some vigorous fluttering finally went off in search of a different perch.

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