confined to possibilities

that R & A, in whose house we're staying in Sarajevo, were supposed to return yesterday, but didn't, in part allowed us to walk—and keep walking—up into the hills of Sarajevo until long after dark last night. that they wouldn't arrive until late this evening—and our only obligation was to purchase pita ("pie" in That Language, consumed by These People, but nothin' like apple pie, although possibly (safely) made of such)) from potato, spinach, and cheese (Amela's genitive cased request) and liters of jogurt for dinner—gave us the entire day to discuss.

things are, organisationally, falling apart at NB and with MCC; i am at the crossroads and must make a decision that will immediately sprout branches of others. but meanwhile, i can barely write the shorthand for: i'm having difficulty thinking. (this, itself, a shorthand, a coded—direct translation—identity.)

so we pace the apartment, wearing treads in the floor and clawmarks on the walls. and when we leave, in the dwindling afternoon rays, it's because we couldn't have been inside with our flung words, our knocked-upon circles with their invisible exits, for most of an entire day—in a city that deserves to be more than a haven, though it is an unlikely and inimitable one. and because we had made the promise and the trudge for pita.