Donโ€™t go. Iโ€™m not finished yet.

What was I saying? Or was I? I've always prayed we'd have those precious moments at the end, on top of which the right words would float flawlessly, clearing the ocean that lies between us. We did get those moments, many fractions of time that were carefully orchestrated for us and condensed into two long months to which I tried to shove twenty years.

We were given all the words and all the time we could wish for. Well, point made, note taken - there are no words and there is no time that can fill the space between you and me. There is only an ocean of elusive laws, and I can't reach. I can't, daddy, I can't. I tried. I promise I did.

And love is a strange thing. It can never be damaged. Did you know this?

Remember that day I held you close and whispered in your ear that everything was going to be alright, as you would to little boy who is afraid of the dark? I wanted to make it all go away, like you skillfully did when I was afraid of witches, when I was afraid of Hitler, when I was afraid of blood tests (still am) and grownups (still am) and speaking with grownups (still am).

But you didn't believe me. I'm sorry I lied.
Another color stain on the wall. Better than leaving it blank.

Yesterday I turned pages for a pianist, daddy. I thought of you. That this would be a typical thing I'd tell you about over the phone, before mom releases us from the awkward exchange. I would tell you about Brahms, about Bloch, about the warm sound of the violin that reminded me of your warm sound, and you would hum the whole thing and conduct it to yourself, lightly, playfully. Then I'd say I wish we could play the Spring Sonata together again, and you'd nod, and we'd enjoy our mutual intention projecting into a future that would forever stay there, hung, in the future.

Last time we said goodbye at the airport, I dared digging deep into your eyes, and I recognized you there, and you knew. The background noise slowly gave in as if to accommodate the fine gesture, the rare encounter. I then decided this would be our moment, our Goodbye, you and I in the vastness of the ocean that is us.

Conversations we need to have before we die

4. Iโ€™m sorry to tell you this but I browsed through your things, your wallet, your drawersโ€ฆ 


What do you think about that? 

What were you looking for? 



The more I find the blurrier you become. 

You think there must be something there because there is so little there. 

I found a poem. I guess about one of your last Chess games.  You sacrificed a bishop and a knight and you killed that king. 

If you say so. 

It could also be that it was your king that got killed. You shifted to 3rd person when the killing started. But the giddiness in your writingโ€ฆ I think you won. 

I think I donโ€™t care. 

You really donโ€™t. I get it.  
I miss something so lost. I donโ€™t even know where to aim to capture this longing. 
I miss  

Donโ€™t cry 

Life is 

Hey, thatโ€™s why we play games 

You begged me not to leave you alone today and I did. I wanted to go home and wash my face and eat and write an email but I made some kind of excuse. 

I wouldnโ€™t do better 

You didnโ€™t do better. And yet.  

Donโ€™t cry. I will forget this by tomorrow. 

5. I truly think youโ€™re not a good person.  


Yes. I think you are a narcissist and mean and easily triggered. 

Is that the closure you wanted? Telling me this? 

Your worst personality traits are responsible for your best performances.  

Like what? 

You were shameless, you had no humility, you were all over the place, didnโ€™t seek approval or feedback but you were somehow exceptionally attuned to the moment.  

In bed. Music is harder to fool. 

You loved me because of my absence. I didnโ€™t ask for anything. Didnโ€™t want anything. Didnโ€™t have moods. Only that one mood. That sadness that goes with everything. 


Then why did you love me? Name one legitimate reason? 

Because you loved the 2nd movement of the Ravel concerto.  



You dragged me to a CD store and you made me buy the Koln Concert. You decided to fall in love with me and then you filled in the blanks. 

Did you not love the Koln Concert? 

You made music sound differently. It was colored by your presence. I donโ€™t even know how the Koln concert sounds without your memory attached.

Life used to be simpler. 

The way you were then. Fucking arrogant but still raw, still soft. Hungry. Life will never be like this anymore. This thought crushes me. I canโ€™tโ€ฆ 

You know what they sayโ€ฆ Donโ€™t go looking in space for that which is lost in time. 

Iโ€™m not looking. Just mourning. It feels like life is closing on me. Pension. Freezing eggs. Dementia. Rejection. Iโ€™m so deeply disappointed with myself and I canโ€™t start over. I run so fast to catch up but I canโ€™t. Iโ€™m tired. Weightless. I donโ€™t have the personality it takes. You do. Youโ€™re an asshole. 

You have a lot to say. 

Life has become stale. Conversations are stale. Weโ€™ve either โ€˜figured it outโ€™ or quit the game. We have health issues. 

Wow, I caught you on a good day. 

You are a star. 


Iโ€™m not jealous.  

1. Itโ€™s too dark. Your nails. 

I know. What else. 

Iโ€™m not sure. But this. Thisโ€ฆ is very clear. 

Thank you.


You know that feeling when youโ€™re just trying to write something uncensored, and someone is looking at your screen? 

No, I donโ€™t think theyโ€™d be that interested in what I do. 

Youโ€™re wrong. People are always interested in. Scratch that, 

Weโ€™re not deleting today I see. 

Weโ€™re not. Perhaps weโ€™re not even punctuating today the whole deal with periods and commas is 

Stream ofโ€ฆ 


Alright so no thinking in syntax but in intonation and melody in inclination shapes and beats  

Or maybe just write minus that punctuation. 

You just hit delete. 

Thatโ€™s ok no oneโ€™s perfect 

Would you tell me something? 

Iโ€™ll tell you many things 

Do you love me 

Is that all that matters in the world? Do we always have to talk about looooove 

Well do you? 

I did and once I do I canโ€™t go back so I guess I do 

Do you miss me 

I do. I miss life when you happened to be around. Is that the same? 

I donโ€™t think so 

I miss the abstractness of that time. If Miro painted a picture of that time there wouldnโ€™t be me and you and the stuff of life around us but you would be one filter and I would be another filter. Juxtaposed and we would exist in every anchor like the half circle and that red dot and that line and the other line. That day I stood in front of that paintingโ€ฆ Iโ€™ve never left. 

So you donโ€™t. You pitied me. 

When you first told me that you loved me I could smell the inevitability of it, as if containing it was bruising you. I felt your love on my skin in the air in the sheets your heart was so open the most open Iโ€™d ever seen a heart before.  

Do you remember that bath we took together? 

You wanted me to. You challenged me 

I did. 

And I did. 

You did. 

I remember you liked it 

I was easy to please. You liked it rough too 

Such a clichรฉ of a thing to assume.  

When do you have to head back? 

After I get what I want. 

Isnโ€™t this it 

No this isnโ€™t quite what I imagined this is too dynamic, two-sided conversational comfortable 

Ok Iโ€™ll be as quiet as a mouse I will answer your questions and wonโ€™t ask for more. 

That night when I didnโ€™t answer the door 

I remember. Sorry 

What were you thinking? Why didnโ€™t you believe I wasnโ€™t home? 

I went to the other side of the building and watched you standing frozen by the kitchen in your thick red pajamas. I couldnโ€™t see your face but I could feel you vibrate you were trying not to move you wanted me to go you didnโ€™t want to answer that door thatโ€™s what I was thinking. 

So why that act of trying to rescue me 

You needed company 

But obviously I didnโ€™t 

Didnโ€™t want company.  
I felt this penetrating pain from that other side of the building. You needed to be rescued and I didnโ€™t know how to 


Are you satisfied? 

You always satisfy. You never play. Thatโ€™s why I fell in love with you. 

I have a little boy. Iโ€™m married. 

I know that you donโ€™t have to say that like that I knew that 

Ok so 

This is an experiment this is to clear.. to clean.. to cleanse in fact 

Is it a PhD? 

What? No of course not you know itโ€™s not 

Is it a  

Stop itโ€™s a conversation that just needed to end. Ending the conversation. 

I am not sorry. 

Good for you that is very good 


2. You said I did something really well and I felt good about it 

I remember that, it was that play 

That play 


We ended the session and hugged goodbye 


And that hug lasted for two hundred years. Time expanded I still donโ€™t know if time expanded for you too or if it was only three seconds that in my head turned into  

I know what you mean 


Thatโ€™s what you wanted to hear from me? Was that the problem? 

I didnโ€™t say there was a problem, there was certainly no problem it was one of the best days of my life. Until it turned into the last day I saw you. 


On purpose please donโ€™t tell me that wasnโ€™t on purpose. 

It got dangerous. 

You think?

You donโ€™t think? 

I never looked at you in that way.

Did you think I was special? 

I thought you were a complicated person with complicated thoughts. All an advantage. 

You always say that but it doesnโ€™t mean much to me 

Iโ€™m sorry to hear that. Thatโ€™s your edge. Thatโ€™s the only real edge youโ€™ll ever have. 

Thanks. You donโ€™t have to be so rough 

I thought you liked rough 

Excuse me? Were you listening in on the other conversation? 

What else? 



3. I lied. 

It took me so long to realize this but I did. 

It made you happy?

Of course but I wanted to know where the lie ended and your new life began โ€“


Congrats by the way

Goes to show 

Yup yup thatโ€™s how. Yeah we never know. 

We really donโ€™t. 


You said congrats. 

Are there other words? 

No no thatโ€™s the only word. 

Thank god. 

Do you still? When you

Youโ€™ve so not earned that question 

I think you do 

I do of course yes although sometimes she pops up in the middle, and thatโ€™s fucking- I mean that makes fucking fucking impossible. 

Excerpt from Out-Going

Immortality, my favorite book by Milan Kundera, opens with a woman waving to her swimming instructor from across the pool. The narrator observes this in awe, as he recognizes something else, a quality to that wave of the hand, that doesn't seem to belong to this far from charming woman, but perhaps to someone he feels he knows already, even though they had never met. I read this when I was in the army. It was the first time the thought crossed my mind that maybe the qualities that I think I own and which make me ME, are in fact their own independent entities. Perhaps more so than I am. And maybe I am possessed by them rather than they being owned or used by me. In other words, this charming wave of the hand decided to go out and play in the world today, and its channel happened to be a particular woman. Tomorrow, she might try to replicate that moment, but this gorgeous presence will have moved on by then, finding other vessels through which to celebrate its autonomous beauty.

I don't want to tell you a story

I have a problem with narratives. I don't believe in them. Don't find them interesting. To be perfectly honest, it's not that I haven't tried. But you just can't survive in this world without occasionally disguising your weaknesses as convictions. So there it is. I can't tell a story to save my life. It's true. You'll see. 

Not only that, but there's a little bit of contempt rising up in me whenever I observe a storyteller in the act. As I watch them speak, I can almost see them transform into a little spoiled brat with an oversized lollipop, running around with glazed eyes, contaminating the room with their careless stickiness. 

Maybe I should do poetry. People might be more forgiving about not understanding what the hell I'm trying to say when the understanding part is not officially required. Or maybe one day I'll just miraculously cease cherishing my narraphobia so dearly, and it'll naturally evaporate, looking for someone else to cling to, who'll love it unconditionally as I once have.

But we're getting sidetracked. Let's focus: narratives.

When you adopt the identity of the observer early on in life, you naturally get used to perceiving life as reality within reality within reality. What people sense as TIME that is pushing them further and forward, you grasp as SPACE that is taking you deeper and below. Experiencing life this way becomes easily an addictive habit, since it also happens to be escapism's most effective device. 

However, it seemed undeniable that whatever it was that was 'happening' in the horizontal realm of things - narratives' kingdom - could never be half as engaging as the texture of one moment's infinite layers, constantly unfolding into the present. 


(When I said goodbye to my father before leaving Israel a week ago, he left me with two things: "My oatmeal is cold" and "Stop being a philosopher". It made me laugh... imagining a tiny philosopher sitting inside a microwave, gazing patiently through the glass door.)

I'll try to describe the book -- Well, maybe I'll backtrack to our first correspondences. No, actually, let me go further back to film school in Paris. Seems like a million years ago. It was the year I discovered the wonders of editing and the Soviet Montage Cinema.

Have you heard of the Kuleshov effect? A Russian filmmaker made an experiment using an image of a man that he alternated with various shots of different objects. The audience was convinced that the manโ€™s facial expression changed dramatically following every image he was supposedly looking at. Only it didn't at all. Kuleshov used the same image every time, yet the man seemed deeply and differently moved by each thing he "saw". 

So where does the value, the quality of the image lie? The frame has its defined features and limitations. However, its hidden essence or potential can only be revealed, or rather created, through its interaction with other frames, and within the context of the entire sequence or film or life it is part of.

I wonder, maybe that's why we need to go on this ride called life. Some discoveries you just can't make without getting a littleโ€ฆ involved.

Thatโ€™s how Iโ€™ve been thinking about our correspondence. I was thrilled when you first replied to my letter. As time and additional letters went by, there was something about my replies that took me by surprise โ€“ a foreign yet familiar quality that I wasnโ€™t able to define or point to. As if - as in the experiment - the juxtaposition of our โ€œframesโ€ at that time in our lives created a third element, an effect only our particular match could inspire, and it changed the nature of what each of us brought to the table. 

The next step was, inevitably, going over my email accountโ€™s outgoing folder from the past decade or so to study this more thoroughly. I wanted to examine how one side of the conversation โ€“ fed by the encounter with a hidden other side - can carry an encoding of a story that is bigger than itself. 

ืขื•ื“ ืœื ืกื™ืคืจืชื™ ืœืš ืขืœ ืคืืจื™ื–

ื–ื” ืืฃ ืคืขื ืœื ื ืจืื” ื”ืจื’ืข ื”ื ื›ื•ืŸ, ื•ื—ื•ืฅ ืžื–ื” ืœืคืืจื™ื– ืœื ืžืชืื™ืžื™ื ื ืจื˜ื™ื‘ื™ื. ืœื• ื”ื™ื™ืชื™ ื™ื›ื•ืœื”, ืืช ืคืืจื™ื– ื”ื™ื™ืชื™ ืžืกืคืจืช ื‘ืชืžื•ื ื•ืช ืกื˜ื™ืœืก ืขื ืคื•ืงื•ืก ืชืžื•ื”, ืœืžืฉืœ ืขืœ ื”ืขืงื‘ื™ื ื”ื“ืงื™ืงื™ื ืฉืœื™ ืฉื”ื™ื• ื ืชืคืกื™ื ื‘ื™ืŸ ื”ื—ืจื™ืฆื™ื ื‘ืจื—ื•ื‘ ืงื ืงืžืคื•ืื”, ืื• ื”ืงื•ืจื ืคืœืงืก ื”ื ื˜ื•ืฉ ืฉืืจื— ืœื™ ื—ื‘ืจื” ื‘ืœื™ืœื” ื”ืจืืฉื•ืŸ ื‘ื“ื™ืจื” ืื—ืช ืฉื‘ื” ื”ื™ื• ื•ืœื ื”ื™ื• ื™ื•ืชืจ ืขืœื™ืœื•ืช ืžืฉืชื•ื›ืœ ืœื”ื›ื™ืœ, ืื• ื”ื–ื™ืชื™ื ื”ื ืขืœืžื™ื ื•ื”ื‘ื•ื˜ื ื™ื ื”ื ืžืฆืื™ื, ืขืœ ืงืœื™ืคื•ืชื™ื”ื, ื•ื”ืฉื›ืŸ ืฉืจืง ื‘ืฉื‘ื™ืœื• ื ื™ื’ื ืชื™ ื‘ืคืกื ืชืจ ื›ืœ ืœื™ืœื”, ื‘ืขื™ืงืจ ื“ื‘ื™ื•ืกื™, ื•ืฉื”ื™ื” ืชืžื™ื“ ืžืงืฉื™ื‘, ืื• ืœืคื—ื•ืช ื ืžืฆื.

ืื‘ืœ ื–ื” ืœื ื–ื”. ื–ื” ืœื. ืœื ื ืจืื” ืœื™ ืฉืื ื™ ืžืฆืœื™ื—ื” ืœืขืฆื•ืจ ื‘ืฉื‘ื™ืœืš - ื–ื” ืžืฆืจื™ืš ืขืฆื™ืจื” ืžืœืื” - ื•ืœื—ืœืฅ ืืช ื”ื—ื™ื™ื ืžื”ื–ื™ื›ืจื•ืŸ ืฉื ืจืื” ืœื ืคื—ื•ืช ืคื™ืงื˜ื™ื‘ื™ ืžืดื ืงืกื•ืกืด ืื• ืดืคืœืงืกื•ืกืด, ืื• ืžื” ืฉื–ื” ืœื ื”ื™ื” ืฉื’ืจืจ ืื•ืชื™ ืœืžืงื•ื ื”ื–ื”. ืžื“ื™ื. ืœื‘ืฉืชื™ ื‘ืคืืจื™ื– ืžื“ื™ื. ืžื” ื™ื•ืชืจ ืื‘ืกื•ืจื“ื™ ืžื–ื”. ืื‘ืœ ืขื™ืฉื ืชื™. ืขื™ืฉื ืชื™ ื”ืจื‘ื” ื•ื™ืคื” ื•ืขื ืงืคื” ืืœื•ื ื–ืณื”. 

ื•ื”ื™ื” ื‘ื•ืงืจ ืื—ื“, ืื ื™ ื—ื•ืฉื‘ืช ืฉื–ื” ื”ื™ื” 5:30 ืื• 6:00. ื‘ืจื—ืชื™ ืžื”ื‘ื™ืช ืฉืœ ืขืฆืžื™ ืื—ืจื™ ืœื™ืœื” ืฉืืจืš ื™ื•ืžื™ื™ื ืœืคื—ื•ืช. ื”ืื•ืจ, ื›ืžืขื˜ ื•ืœื ื”ืืžื ืชื™ ืฉื–ืจื— ื‘ืกื•ืฃ. ื™ืจื“ืชื™ ืœืกืŸ ื–ืณืจืžืŸ ื•ื—ืฆื™ืชื™ ืืช ื”ืžื™ื ื›ืื™ืœื• ื›ืœื•ื, ื›ืื™ืœื• ื–ื• ืคืกื™ืขื” ื‘ืืœื ื‘ื™ (ื•ื™ื•ืฉื‘ื™ ืคืืจื™ื– ื™ื•ื“ืขื™ื - ืื™ ืืคืฉืจ ืœื—ืฆื•ืช ื’ืฉืจ ืœืœื ื”ื”ืฉื”ื™ื™ื” ื”ืžื•ืกื•ื•ื™ืช, ื”ืžื‘ื˜ ื”ืžืฆื•ืขืฃ). ืื‘ืœ ื”ื’ืฉืจ ืœื ื–ื›ื•ืจ ืœื™ ืžืื•ืชื• ื”ื‘ื•ืงืจ. ืจืง ื–ื›ื•ืจื” ืœื™ ื”ื–ื•ื™ืช ืฉื‘ื” ืคื’ืขื” ื”ืฉืžืฉ ื‘ืชืงืœื™ื˜ื•ืจ ืฉืชืœืชื” ืื™ืฉื” ืืœืžื•ื ื™ืช - ืฉืœื ื ืจืื” ื”ื™ื” ืฉืžืขื•ืœื ื™ืฉื ื” ืื• ืœื ื”ื™ื™ืชื” ืืœืžื•ื ื™ืช - ืขืœ ืื—ื“ ื”ืขืฆื™ื ื‘ื›ื™ื›ืจ. ื•ื”ื™ื ื”ื‘ื™ื˜ื” ื‘ืขืฆืžื” ื“ืจื›ื•, ืžืจื•ืฆื”, ืžื”ื•ืคื ื˜ืช, ืžื•ืจื—ืช ืขื•ื“ ืฉื›ื‘ื” ืฉืœ ืื•ื“ื. ื•ืื ื™ ื•ื’ื•ืคื™ ืขื“ื™ื. 

ื•ื”ื™ื” ืจืžื™ (ื–ื” ืžืœืจืข, ืื ื—ื ื• ื‘ืฆืจืคืช ืขื“ื™ื™ืŸ). ื”ื•ื ื”ื™ื” ืคืกื ืชืจืŸ ื’ืื•ืŸ. ืื• ืื•ืœื™ ื”ื™ื” ืคืฉื•ื˜ ื’ืื•ืŸ. ืื ื™ ื–ื•ื›ืจืช ืœื™ืœื•ืช ืฉื”ื•ื ื”ื™ื” ืžื ื’ืŸ ืฉืขื•ืช, ื•ื”ื™ื™ืชื™ ืžืฉืชืจืขืช ืขืœ ื”ืžื™ื˜ื” ืฉืœื• ื•ืžืžืชื™ื ื” ื‘ืกื‘ืœื ื•ืช ืฉื™ื’ืžื•ืจ. ื’ื ื‘ืชื ื”ืงื•ืœื™ ืฉืœื™ ื”ื™ื” ืžื ื’ืŸ. ืžืขื•ืœื ืืฃ ืžื™ืœื”. ื•ืื– ื”ื™ื” ืกื•ื’ืจ ืืช ื”ืคืกื ืชืจ ื•ืžื•ืจื™ื“ ืœื™ ืืช ื”ื‘ื’ื“ื™ื. ื”ื•ื ื ืชืŸ ืœื™ ืคืขื ืงืœื˜ืช, ื›ื–ื• ืฉืฉืžื™ื ื‘ื˜ื™ื™ืค, ื–ื” ื‘ื™ืžื™ื ืฉืขื•ื“ ืœื ื”ื™ื” ื’ืื•ืŸ. ืื ื™ ื–ื•ื›ืจืช ืžื ื’ื™ื ื” ืื—ืช ืฉื”ื™ื™ืชื™ ื™ื›ื•ืœื” ืœื–ืžื–ื ืœืš ื›ืืŸ ื•ืขื›ืฉื™ื• ืœืžืจื•ืช ืฉื–ื” ื”ื™ื” ืœืคื ื™ 10 ืฉื ื™ื ื•ืฉื–ื” ื”ื™ื” ืžืื•ืœืชืจ ื•ืžื‘ื•ืœื’ืŸ ื•ืื•ืœื™ ื‘ื›ืœืœ ืœื ื”ื™ื”. ืœืคืขืžื™ื ืื ื™ ืžืืžื™ื ื” ื‘ืขืžืงื™ ื ืฉืžืชื™ ืฉืื ื”ื™ื™ืชื™ ื™ื›ื•ืœื” ืœืฉืžื•ืข ืืช ื”ืžื ื’ื™ื ื” ื”ื–ืืช ืขื•ื“ ืคืขื ืื—ืช ื–ื” ื”ื™ื” ืžืฉื ื” ื”ื›ืœ.

ืืฃ ืคืขื ืœื ื”ื‘ื ืชื™ ื“ื‘ืจื™ื ืื‘ื•ื“ื™ื.

ื’ื ืขื•ื“ ืœื ืกื™ืคืจืชื™ ืœืš ืขืœ ืฉื•ื•ื“ื™ื”

ื–ื” ื”ื™ื” ืžื–ืžืŸ. ื•ื–ื” ื’ื ืœื ื”ื™ื” ื—ืฉื•ื‘. ืื ื™ ืจืง ื–ื•ื›ืจืช ืฉื ื•ืจื ืจืฆื™ืชื™ ื›ื‘ืจ ืœื ืกื•ืข, ื•ืื– ื ื•ืจื ืจืฆื™ืชื™ ื›ื‘ืจ ืœื—ื–ื•ืจ. ื•ืื ื™ ื’ื ื–ื•ื›ืจืช ืืช ื”ื˜ื™ืกื”. ืขื ืื™ืชื™. ื•ืฉื”ืœื‘ ืฉืœื™ ื“ืงืจ ืื•ืชื™ ื—ื–ืง ื‘ืคืชืื•ืžื™ื•ืช ื‘ื”ืžืจืื”, ื•ื”ืชื‘ื™ื™ืฉืชื™ ืœืขืฉื•ืช ืดืื™ื™ืด. ื–ื” ื›ืžื• ืฉื”ื™ื” ื‘ื‘ืจื™ื›ื”, ืขื•ื“ ื™ื•ืชืจ ืžื–ืžืŸ. ื”ื’ืขืชื™ ืœืžื™ื ื”ืขืžื•ืงื™ื ื•ื”ืžื™ื ื ื›ื ืกื• ืœืคืชื—ื™ื ื•ื”ืจื’ืฉืชื™ ืืช ืขืฆืžื™ ื˜ื•ื‘ืขืช. ืื‘ืœ ื”ืžื—ืฉื‘ื” ื”ื™ื—ื™ื“ื” ืฉืขื‘ืจื” ืœื™ ื‘ืจืืฉ ื”ื™ื™ืชื” ืฉืžื‘ื™ืš ืœืฆืขื•ืง ืดื”ืฆื™ืœื•ืด. ื‘ืืžืช, ืžื™ ืฆื•ืขืง ื”ืฆื™ืœื•? ืจืง ื‘ืกืจื˜ื™ื. 

ืื ื™ ืฉื•ื ืืช ืžื™ื. 

ื›ืฉืงื•ืจื” ืžืฉื”ื• ื ื•ืจื, ื–ื” ืœื ื ื›ื•ืŸ ืฉืคืชืื•ื ื ื’ืœื” ืœื ื• ืžื” ื—ืฉื•ื‘ ื‘ืืžืช. ืื ื—ื ื• ืคืฉื•ื˜ ืจื•ืื™ื ืžื” ืžื˜ื•ืคืฉ ื•ืžื‘ื™ื ื™ื ืฉืื™ืŸ ืฉื•ื ื“ื‘ืจ ืื—ืจ ืฉืืคืฉืจ ืœื”ืชืขืกืง ื‘ื•. ืคืขื ืื—ืช ื‘ื—ื™ื™ื ื‘ื™ืœื™ืชื™ ืœื™ืœื” ืฉืœื ื‘ืœืฆืขื•ืง ื”ืฆื™ืœื•. ื–ื” ื›ืŸ ืงืจื”. ืื‘ืœ ื–ื• ืœื• ื”ื™ื™ืชื” ืื ื™. ืื ื™ ื”ืชื™ื™ืฉื‘ืชื™ ืขืœ ื”ืชืงืจื” ื•ื‘ืฉืงื˜ ืจืฉืžืชื™ ืœื™ ื”ืขืจื•ืช.

ื”ื™ื™ืชื™ ื—ื•ื–ืจืช ืœืกื˜ื•ืงื”ื•ืœื. ื”ื™ื” ื‘ื” ืžืฉื”ื•. ืœืžืฉืœ, ื”ื™ื” ื‘ื” ืžืงื•ื ืœืฉืœื•ืฉื” ืื ืฉื™ื ืœืจื•ืฅ ื–ื” ืœืฆื“ ื–ื” ื‘ืจื—ื•ื‘ - ืœื ื›ืžื• ืจื™ืฆื” ืœืื•ื˜ื•ื‘ื•ืก. ืžืžืฉ ืจื™ืฆื”, ืขื ื”ื™ื“ื™ื™ื ื•ื”ื”ืชื ืฉืคื•ืช. ื”ืจื’ืฉื ื• ื›ืžื• ื‘ื–ืณื™ืœ ื•ื’ืณื™ื, ืื™ืชื™ ื™ื•ื’ื‘ ื•ืื ื™. ื—ืฉื‘ืชื™ ืื– ืฉืžื” ืฉืฉื™ื“ืš ื‘ื™ื ื™ื ื• ื”ื™ื” ื‘ื•ื•ื“ืื™ ืื™ื–ื” ืกื‘ืœ ืฉื ื•ืœื“ื ื• ืื™ืชื•, ื•ืื•ืœื™ ื–ื” ืืคื™ืœื• ืœื ื”ืกื‘ืœ ืืœื ื›ืžื” ืฉืจืฆื™ื ื• ืœืฆืืช ืžืžื ื•. ืื• ื”ืขื•ื‘ื“ื” ืฉืœื ื™ื›ื•ืœื ื• ืœืฆืืช ืžืžื ื•, ื›ื™ ื”ื•ื ื”ื™ื” ื’ื ื›ืœ ื›ืš ื™ืคื”. ื™ื•ื’ื‘ ืคืขื ื ื™ื’ืฉ ืืœื™ื™ ื‘ื‘ืกื™ืก ื•ืฉืืœ ืดืืช ืžื›ื™ืจื” ืืช ืณื”ืงืœื•ืช ื”ื‘ืœืชื™ ื ืกื‘ืœืช ืฉืœ ื”ืงื™ื•ืืณ?ืด ื•ื–ื”ื•. ืœื—ืฆื ื• ื™ื“ื™ื™ื ื•ื ืกืขื ื• ืœืฉื•ื•ื“ื™ื”. ื–ื• ื›ื–ืืช ื”ืงืœื” ื›ืฉืœื ืฆืจื™ืš ืœื”ืฉืชืžืฉ ื‘ืžื™ืœื™ื, ืื• ืื•ืœื™ ืจืง ื—ืžืฉ ืžื™ืœื™ื.

The Gig

ื›ื•ืื‘ืช ืœื™ ื”ื‘ื˜ืŸ. ื”ื™ื ื›ื•ืื‘ืช ื›ื‘ืจ ืฉื ื™ื. ืขื“ ืขื›ืฉื™ื• ื›ืื‘ื” ื‘ืฉืงื˜ ืœืขืฆืžื” ื•ื ืจืื” ืฉื ืžืืก ืœื”. ื™ืฉ ืœื™ ืชื—ื•ืฉื” ืฉื›ืœ ื–ื” ืขื•ื“ ื™ื›ื•ืœ ืœื”ื™ื’ืžืจ ื˜ื•ื‘. ื›ืžื• ื‘ืกืจื˜ื™ื ืฉื”ืคืกืงืชื™ ืœืจืื•ืช ื›ื™ ื”ื›ื•ื›ื‘ื™ื ื”ื™ื•ื ื›ื‘ืจ ืฆืขื™ืจื™ื ืžืžื ื™. ืื ื”ื™ื™ืชื™ ื ืœื—ืžืช ื™ื•ืชืจ, ืื•ืœื™ ืคื—ื•ืช, ื”ื™ื” ื™ื•ืฆื ืžืฉื”ื• ืžื›ืœ ื”ืกื™ืคื•ืจ ื”ื–ื”. ืื– ืื ื™ ืชืงื•ืขื” ืขื ืกืจื˜ื™ ืื™ื›ื•ืช. ืื ื™ ื—ื•ืฉื‘ืช ืฉืื ื™ ื—ื™ื” ืืช ื—ื™ื™ ื›ืžื• ื—ื•ื˜ ื‘ืžื—ื˜ - ืงื“ื™ืžื” ื‘ืกืชืจ, ืื—ื•ืจื” ื‘ื‘ืขื™ื˜ื”, ื•ืคื™ืฆื•ื™ ื›ืคื•ืœ ืขืœ ื”ืคืขืจ; ืงื“ื™ืžื”, ืื—ื•ืจื”, ืคื™ืฆื•ื™. ื‘ื–ื” ื ื’ืžืจืช ื”ื™ื“ื™ืขื” ืฉืœื™ ื‘ืชืคื™ืจื”. 

ืกื•ืฃ ืกื•ืฃ ืื ื™ ื‘ืฆื“ ื”ืฉื ื™. ื–ื” ืœืงื— ืจืง 18 ืฉื ื™ื ืœื—ื–ื•ืจ ืžืžืช ืœื—ื™. ืขื›ืฉื™ื• ืื ื™ ืžื‘ื™ื ื” ืœืžื” ื›ื•ืœื ื›ืœ ื›ืš ืื™ืžืคื•ื˜ื ื˜ื™ื ื›ืฉื”ื ื‘ืกื“ืจ. 

ื™ืฉ ืœื™ ืชื—ื•ืฉื” ืฉื™ื•ื ืื—ื“ ืืžื•ืช. ื ืจืื” ืœื™ ืฉื”ื™ื™ืชื™ ื™ื•ื“ืขืช ืืช ื–ื” ื’ื ืื ืœื ื”ื™ื• ืžืกืคืจื™ื ืœื™. ื–ื” ืœื ืžืคืกื™ืง ืœื”ืขืฆื™ื‘ ืื•ืชื™ ืืคื™ืœื• ืœืจื’ืข ืื—ื“. ืคืขื ืจื•ืคื ืฉื™ื ื™ื™ื ื—ืฉื‘ ืฉื™ืฉ ืœื™ ืคื™ื’ื•ืจ ืฉื›ืœื™, ื›ื™ ืœื ื”ื‘ื ืชื™ ืื•ืชื• (ื”ื•ื ื“ื™ื‘ืจ ื’ืจืžื ื™ืช) ื•ื‘ืžืงื•ื ืœื”ืกื‘ื™ืจ ื—ื™ื™ื›ืชื™. ื—ื™ื™ื›ืชื™ ื›ืžื• ืžืœืืš ืฉืžืกืชื›ืœ ืขืœ ื›ืžื” ืฉื›ืœ ื–ื” ืžื•ื–ืจ, ืื• ื›ืื™ืœื• ื ื›ื ืกื” ื‘ื™ ืจื•ื— ื”ืจืคืื™ื ืฉืœ ืขืฆืžื™. ืžืขืžื™ื“ื” ืคื ื™ื ืฉืื ื™ ื™ื•ื“ืขืช ื”ื›ืœ. ื‘ืืžืช ื™ื•ื“ืขืช. ื•ืฉื–ื” ืžืžืฉ ืœื ืžืคืจื™ืข ืœื”ื™ื•ืช ืœื-ืžื•ื‘ื ืช. ืื•ืœื™ ืื ื™ ื™ื•ืชืจ ืžื•ืืจืช ืžืžื” ืฉืื ื™ ื—ื•ืฉื‘ืช. (ืื™ื–ื• ืืžื™ืจื” ืคืจื“ื•ืงืกืœื™ืช. ื•ื”ื”ื™ืคืš ืžืคืจื“ื•ืงืกืœื™ืช.) ื”ื ื” ื”ื•ื ืžืจื™ื ื’ื‘ื”. ื”ืžืืžืฅ. ืคืชื— ืกื•ื’ืจื™ื™ื

ืœืื‘ื ืฉืœื™ ื›ื•ืื‘ ืžืื“. ื›ืฉืœืžื™ืฉื”ื• ื›ื•ืื‘ ืžืื“ ื”ื•ื ืœื ืื•ืžืจ ืดื›ื•ืื‘ ืœื™ืด; ื”ื•ื ืื•ืžืจ ืดืžืชื™?ืด.

ืื ื™ ืžืฉื—ื–ืจืช ืืช ื”ืคื’ื™ืฉื” ืฉืœื ื• ื•ื”ื›ืœ ืžืขืœื” ืขื•ื‘ืฉ. ืื ื™ ืžืจื’ื™ืฉื” ืฉืื ื™ ื›ื•ืชื‘ืช ื›ืžื• ืžื™ืฉื”ื• ืื—ืจ. ื ืงืจื ืœื–ื” ื”ื•ืžืื–ืณ. ืื ื™ ืžืชื—ื™ืœื” ืœื”ืืžื™ืŸ ื‘ืกื•ืฃ ื•ื”ืชื—ืœื”. ื”ื ืžื’ื‘ืฉื™ื ืฆื•ืจื” ืืฆืœื™ ื‘ื–ืžืŸ ื”ืื—ืจื•ืŸ. ืื•ืœื™ ื‘ืกื•ืฃ ืืืžื™ืŸ ื‘ื–ืžืŸ, ื•ืื– ืื•ืฆื™ื ืกืคืจ ืฉื ืงืจื: ืดืื™ืš ืขืฉื™ืชื™ ื–ืืช! ืกืคืจ ืœื—ื‘ืจื™ืšืด. ืื ื™ ืžื“ืžื™ื™ื ืช ืฉืžืจืื™ื™ื ื™ื ืื•ืชื™ ื‘ื˜ืœื•ื™ื–ื™ื” ื•ืื ื™ ืžืชื ื”ื’ืช ื›ืžื• ื™ืœื“ื” ืžืคื’ืจืช, ืขื ื”ื—ื™ื•ืš ื”ืžื˜ื•ืคืฉ, ืจืง ื›ื“ื™ ืœื”ื•ื›ื™ื— ืื™ื–ื• ื ืงื•ื“ื”. (ื”ืžืจื“ื ื•ืช ืฉืœื™ ื”ื™ื ืฉืงื˜. ื•ื’ื ืื™ื–ื” ืงืขืงื•ืข). ื›ืฉื”ื™ื™ืชื™ ื‘ืคืืจื™ื– ื•ื”ื›ืจืชื™ ืฉื ืžื™ืฉื”ื™ ืจืขื” ื‘ืืžืช, ื ืฉื‘ืขืชื™ ืœืขืฆืžื™ ืฉืœืขื•ืœื ืœื ืื”ืคืš ืœืžืจื™ืจื”, ืœื ืžืฉื ื” ื›ืžื” ื™ื”ื™ื” ืœื™ ืงืฉื”. ื•ืœื ื”ืคื›ืชื™. ืœื”ื™ืคืš. ืื™ื–ื” ืžืงื•ืจ ื’ืื•ื•ื” ืžื˜ื•ืคืฉ. ื•ืžื™ ืืžืจ ืฉืขืฆื‘ ื–ื” ื‘ื—ื™ืจื” ื™ื•ืชืจ ื ืื•ืจื”. ืกื’ื•ืจ ืกื•ื’ืจื™ื™ื

ื”ื‘ื™ืงื•ืจ ื”ืื—ืจื•ืŸ ืืฆืœ ืื‘ื, ืงืฉื” ืœื”ืกื‘ื™ืจ. ืื ื™ ืžื ืกื” ืœื—ื‘ืง ืื•ืชื• ื‘ื›ืœ ื›ืš ื”ืจื‘ื” ื“ืจื›ื™ื ืื‘ืœ ื ืฉืืจืช ืžืกื‘ื™ื‘. ื•ืื– ืื ื™ ืžื ืกื” ืขื•ื“ ืคืขื, ืงืฆืช ืื—ืดื›. ื•ื›ืฉื–ื” ืœื ืขื•ื‘ื“, ืื ื™ ืžืœื˜ืคืช ืœื• ืืช ื”ืฉื™ืขืจ. ื–ื” ื“ื‘ืจ ื—ื“ืฉ. ืžืœื˜ืคืช ื•ืžืชืคืขืœืช ืžื”ืฉื™ืขืจ ื”ืœื‘ืŸ ื”ื™ืคื” ืฉืœื•. ืžื ืงื” ืœื• ืืช ื”ืคื” ื‘ืคืขื ื”ืขืฉืจืช ืืœืคื™ื, ื›ื™ ื–ื” ื’ื ืงืฆืช ื›ืžื• ื—ื™ื‘ื•ืง. ืื ื™ ื™ื•ืฉื‘ืช ืงืžื•ืฆื” ื•ืžื“ื•ื“ื” ื•ืžืชื” ืœื”ื™ื•ืช ืžื™ืฉื”ื™ ืื—ืจืช ืฉืžืชื ื”ื’ืช ื›ืžื• ืฉืฆืจื™ืš ื‘ืกื™ื˜ื•ืืฆื™ื” ื›ื–ืืช. ืฉืžื“ื‘ืจืช ื‘ืงื•ืœ ืจื ื•ื ืขื™ื, ืฉืžื—ืœื™ื˜ื” ืžื” ืงื•ืจื” ื•ืžื” ืœื ืงื•ืจื”. ืื•ืœื™ ื–ื” ืœื ื‘ื“ื™ื•ืง ื–ื”, ื›ื™ ืื ื™ ื“ื•ื•ืงื ื›ืŸ ืžื“ื‘ืจืช ื•ืžื—ืœื™ื˜ื” ื•ื›ืœ ื–ื”, ืœืคืขืžื™ื. ืื‘ืœ ื–ื” ื”ืคื” ืฉืœื™ ืฉืžื ื”ืœ ื—ื™ื™ื ืžืฉืœ ืขืฆืžื•, ื•ืฉืืจ ื”ื’ื•ืฃ ืฆื•ื•ื•ื— ืœืืืืืืืืืืืืืืืืืื ืžืชื•ืš ืฉื™ืชื•ืง, ื”ืœื. ืžืžืฉ ื›ืžื• ืขื›ืฉื™ื•. ืื‘ืœ ื›ืœ ืชื™ื ื•ืง ื™ื•ื“ืข ืฉืื™ืŸ ืžืกืคื™ืง ืžืงื•ื ื‘ืขื•ืœื ืœืฆื•ื•ื—ื” ื”ื–ืืช, ื•ืฆืจื™ืš ื”ืจื‘ื” ืœื™ื˜ื•ืคื™ื ื›ื“ื™ ืœืกื›ืœ ืืช ืฉื—ืจื•ืจื”.

I've been taking pictures

And reading. The book, it says โ€œRead this as if youโ€™re not the passive participator in this exchange. Read this as if youโ€™re going to teach it, to explain something about it to someone else who can benefit from it. Can you feel how it changes your experience? how receiving becomes a proactive state?โ€

The camera, itโ€™s a phone camera, but a very good one. I enjoy playing around with it much more than expected. I've always thought becoming used to this habit might damage the purity of precious moments, pulling me into commenting on and documenting my life instead of living it, in it.

Itโ€™s probably true, as things tend to be when they are also wrong. But today, when I was making my way through the alleys of Oaxaca, holding my little embarrassing tourist device, I realized that something transformed in a meaningful way. I became more alert, adventurous, open. Even humbled. Not as self involved.

The possibility of sharing a story, of forwarding a fraction of life to someone who wasnโ€™t there didnโ€™t seem as artificial anymore, as it didnโ€™t only change the experience of living the story; it had the power to change the story itself.


 ืื ื™ ื ื›ื ืกืช ืœืžื—ื™ืœื•ืช ื”ืชืช ืงืจืงืขื™ื•ืช, ื”ืจื™ื— ื”ืžื•ื›ืจ ืฉืœ ืžืชื™ืงื•ืช ืฉืœ ืœื›ืœื•ืš ืžื”ื•ืœ ื‘ืื•ื•ื™ืจ ื”ื—ื ื”ื™ื•ืฆื ืžื”ืคืชื—ื™ื, ื•ื”ื›ืจื–ื•ืช ื”ื—ื“ืฉื•ืช ืžืกื•ื™ื“ื•ืช ื”ื™ื˜ื‘ ืœื“ืคื ื•ืช ื”ืžืขื‘ืจื™ื: ืกื•ืฃ ืขื•ื ื” ื‘ื—ื ื•ื™ื•ืช, ื—ื‘ื™ืœื•ืช ื ื•ืคืฉ ื‘ืžื—ื™ืจ ืžื‘ืฆืข, ืคืกื˜ื™ื‘ืœ ื’'ืื– ืงืจื‘ ื•ื‘ื... ื•ื”ื”ืœื™ื›ื” ืœื ื ืคืกืงืช, ืชื—ื•ืฉื” ื”ื—ืžืฆื” ืžืžื ื” ื™ืฉ ืœื”ืžื ืข. ื•ืจืฆื™ื ื•ื›ื‘ืจ ืื™ื ื ื—ื•ืฉื‘ื™ื ืขืœ ื™ืžื™ืŸ ื•ืขืœ ืฉืžืืœ, ื–ื•ื›ืจื™ื ืขื“ ื›ืžื” ืžื˜ืขื™ื ื”ืกื™ืžื•ื ื™ื, ืขื•ืœื™ื ื•ื™ื•ืจื“ื™ื, ืขื™ื™ืคื™ื ื•ื ื—ื•ืฉื™ื. ืคื ื™ื ืœื‘ื ื™ื, ืฉืงื•ืคื™ื, ื’ื•ืฃ ืžืชื—ื ืŸ ืœืžืขื™ื“ื” ืงืœื”, ืœื”ืชืงืœื•ืช ื‘ืœืชื™ ืฆืคื•ื™ื”, ืกื™ื‘ื” ืœื—ื™ื•ืš ื‘ื™ื™ืฉืŸ. ื•ืงืจ, ื•ืื™ืฉ ืื™ืฉ ืžืชื›ื ืก ื‘ืžืขื™ืœื•, ื™ื•ืฉื‘ ืฉืคื•ืฃ ื•ืงื”ื”; ื•ืคื ื™ื• ื”ื—ื™ื•ื•ืจื™ื ื‘ืœื‘ื“ ื”ื™ื• ืขืฉื•ื™ื™ื ืœื”ืขื™ื“ ืขืœ ื”ืจื”ื•ืจื™ื ื‘ืจื•ืžื• ืฉืœ ืขื•ืœื. ื•ืื•ืœื™ ื›ืš ื–ื›ื” ื”ืขื ื”ืฆืจืคืชื™ ืœืฉืžื•, ืœื”ื™ืœืช ืชืจื‘ื•ืชื• - ืจื›ื‘ื•ืช ืชื—ืชื™ื•ืช ื•ืฉืžื™ื™ื ืขืฆื•ื‘ื™ื.

ื–ื”ื• ืฉื™ืจื” ืฉืœ ื”ืขื™ืจ ืฉืœื™. ื”ืขื™ืจ ื”ืืคื•ืจื”, ื”ืžืกื›ื ื”, ื”ืงืฉื”, ื”ืกื•ื‘ืœืช ืคืฆืขื™ ื”ืชื‘ื’ืจื•ืช ื•ื›ืื‘ื™ ื–ืงื ื”, ื”ืžืกืจื‘ืช ืœื—ื“ื•ืœ ืžืœื”ื‘ื™ื˜ ืœืื—ื•ืจ, ื•ื”ืžืœื— ื‘ื“ืžืขื•ืชื™ื”, ื•ื”ืžื•ื•ืช ื‘ืขื•ืจืงื™ื”. ื•ืœืขืชื™ื ื ืจืื” ื›ื™ ืื™ื ื” ื™ื•ื“ืขืช ื›ื™ืฆื“ ืœื—ื™ื•ืช ืœืฆื“ ื™ื•ืคื™ื”, ื›ื‘ื•ืฉื” ื‘ืงืกืžื”, ื•ืืชื” ื ื•ืฉื ืื•ืชื”, ืžื•ืขื“ ื‘ื–ืจื•ืขื•ืชื™ื”, ืฆื•ืœืœ ืืœ ื™ื™ืื•ืฉื” (ืื• ื˜ื•ื‘ืข).

ื•ื‘ืงื•ืžื” ื”ืจื‘ื™ืขื™ืช ืื ื™ ื™ื•ืฉื‘ืช ื‘ืืžืฆืข ื”ืœื™ืœื”, ื•ื”ืจื—ื•ื‘ ืžืกืจื‘ ืœื ื•ื—. ืชืขืจื•ื‘ืช ืงื•ืœื•ืช ื•ื–ืžื–ื•ื ืชืขื‘ื•ืจืช ืžื›ื•ื ื™ื•ืช, ื•ืจื•ื— ืงืจื™ืจื” ื—ื•ื“ืจืช ื•ืžืจืขื™ื“ื” ื•ื™ืœื•ืŸ ื›ื—ื•ืœ, ื›ื‘ื“ ื•ืžื—ื•ืกืคืก, ืขื™ื™ืฃ ืžื—ื•ืจืฃ ืืจื•ืš. ื•ืื ื™ ืžืชื’ืขื’ืขืช ืœืขื‘ืจ ืฉืžืขื•ืœื ืœื ื”ื™ื” ืœื™. ื•ืœืคืขืžื™ื ื ื“ืžื” ืœื™, ื›ืŸ ื ื“ืžื” ืœื™, ืฉื”ื—ื™ื™ื ื”ืืœื” ื”ื™ื• ื™ื›ื•ืœื™ื ืœื”ื™ื•ืช ืฉืœื™.

(ื•ืื ื™ ื™ื•ื“ืขืช, ืื ื™ ื™ื•ื“ืขืช, ืื ื™ ื™ื•ื“ืขืช... ื”ื™ื›ืŸ ืœื‘ื™ ื ืžืฆื. ืœื ืฉืื™ืŸ ื‘ื™ื›ื•ืœืชื™ ืœื”ืจื’ื™ืฉ; ืื™ื ื ื™ ืžืกื•ื’ืœืช ืœื”ื•ืกื™ืฃ ื•ืœื”ืจื’ื™ืฉ... ื•ื”ื ืชืžื™ื“ ืžื•ืคืชืขื™ื, ื›ืื™ืœื• ืฉื”ื—ื™ื™ื ื‘ืงื•ืžื” ื”ืจื‘ื™ืขื™ืช ืžืฆื‘ื™ืขื™ื ืขืœ ื”ื™ื•ืชื™ ื—ืกืจืช ื™ืฆืจื™ื. ืืœื•ื”ื™ื ื™ื•ื“ืข, ื™ืฉ ืœื™ ื™ืฆืจื™ื, ื•ื”ื ื‘ื•ืขื˜ื™ื ื‘ื‘ื˜ืŸ ื•ื“ื•ืคืงื™ื ื‘ืจืืฉ, ืžื›ืื™ื‘ื™ื ื‘ืฉื™ื ื™ื™ื ื•ืฆื•ื‘ื˜ื™ื ื‘ืจื™ืื•ืช. ืื™ืš ืื”ื‘ืชื™ ืœืฉืžื•ืข ืืช ื”ื ืฉื™ืžื•ืช ืฉืœื™, ื”ืงืฆื•ื‘ื•ืช, ื›ืฉื”ื•ื ื—ืกื ืœื™ ืืช ื“ืจื›ื™ ื”ื ืฉื™ืžื”. ืจืฆื™ืชื™ ืขื•ื“, ืฉื™ื™ื’ืข ื‘ื™ ืขื•ื“, ื‘ื’ื•ืฃ ื”ื–ื”, ืฉื™ื™ื’ืข, ื•ืื– ื”ื•ื ื™ื“ืข, ื”ื’ื•ืฃ ื”ื–ื”, ืฉื”ื•ื ืงื™ื™ื ืœืžืจื•ืช ื”ื›ืœ.)

ื“ื‘ืจื™ื ืฉืฉืžืจืชื™ ื‘ื‘ื˜ืŸ

ื”ื’ืขืชื™ ืขื›ืฉื™ื• ืœืžื ื–ืจ ื•ืขืœ ื”ืคืกื ืชืจ ื”ื™ื™ืชื” ืชืžื•ื ื”, ื•ื‘ืชืžื•ื ื” ื”ื™ื” ืคืชืง, ื•ื‘ืคืชืง  ื”ื™ื” ื›ืชื•ื‘: ืื ื ื”ืชื™ื™ื—ืกื• ืœืคืกื ืชืจ ื‘ืขื“ื™ื ื•ืช ื•ื‘ืื”ื‘ื”, ื•ื”ื™ื™ืชื™ ื‘ื˜ื•ื—ื” ืฉื–ื” ืžื™ื•ืขื“ ืœื™, ื›ื™ ืœืื—ืจื•ื ื” ื“ืคืงืชื™ ืขืœ ื”ืคืกื ืชืจ ื›ืžื• ืžืฉื•ื’ืขืช. ื–ื” ืงื•ืจื” ืœื™ ืœืคืขืžื™ื. ืื ื™ ืขื“ื™ื™ืŸ ื–ื•ื›ืจืช ื›ืžื” ื”ื•ืคืชืขืชื™ ื›ืฉืจืื™ืชื™ ืืช ื›ืชื‘ ื™ื“ื” ืฉืœ ืœื™ืžื•ืจ - ืœื™ืžื•ืจ ืžื”ืขื‘ื•ื“ื”, ื–ื• ื”ืื’ืจืกื™ื‘ื™ืช, ื—ืกืจืช ื”ืกืคืงื•ืช - ืฉื”ื™ื” ืขื“ื™ืŸ ื•ื“ืงื™ืง ื•ืงืœ. ืขื“ ื”ื™ื•ื ืฆืจื•ื‘ื” ืœื™ ื”ืชืžื•ื ื” ื‘ื–ื›ืจื•ืŸ. ื”ื™ื” ื›ืœ ื›ืš ืงืฉื” ืœื”ืืžื™ืŸ ืฉืื ืฉื™ื ื›ืžื•ื” ืœื ื“ื•ืคืงื™ื ืขืœ ืคืกื ืชืจื™ื. ื•ื”ื ืœื. ื–ื”, ื›ืžื•ื‘ืŸ, ืœื ืžืกื•ื‘ืš ืœื”ืกื‘ื™ืจ. ื™ื“ื” ืฉืœ ืœื™ืžื•ืจ ื”ื™ื™ืชื” ืงืœื” ื•ืขืœื™ื–ื” ื›ื ื•ืฆื”, ื›ื™ ืœื ื”ื™ื” ืœื” ืžืฉืงืœ; ืืช ื”ืžืฉืงืœ ืœื™ืžื•ืจ ื”ืขื‘ื™ืจื” ืืœื™ื™, ืืœ ื ื™ืจ, ืืœ ืื•ืคื™ืจ, ืืœ ื™ืขืœ.


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