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He did not think about any genes, inherited from the beginning, whether they are the genes of the body or the soul, and he became suffering pain, the filler of the early breath, and a search between the accumulated package that it was absent for a long time, and no longer disclose its rightful place, and between the past and the present, it remains lost, the child and the man, and the contradiction that hit his tons in the veins of vessels, and amid this conflict, the man only finds that he tears the cocoon membrane, to look at his world with an eye, without sunglasses that block the sunlight....
He did not think about any genes, inherited from the beginning, whether they are the genes of the body or the soul, and he became suffering pain, the filler of the early breath, and a search between the accumulated package that it was absent for a long time, and no longer disclose its rightful place, and between the past and the present, it remains lost, the child and the man, and the contradiction that hit his tons in the veins of vessels, and amid this conflict, the man only finds that he tears the cocoon membrane, to look at his world with an eye, without sunglasses that block the sunlight. He thinks lost in Samia, he thinks of the child Saif, and he finds nothing between Saif and Ali, but a thin thread, the thread of consciousness and the unconscious, the thread of feeling and unconsciousness. In his old house, in the habitat of first love, Maitha looked, in his eyes, a young teenage girl, ripe with love, and the glamour of spontaneity, emerging from that old alley, loose in the transparent village dress.
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