Supposedly, I'm back from the Azawak. Physically I’ve returned, but elusively I'm still there, lingering like the dust that covers everything in that dry, hot place. I’m concerned that my memories are slipping away like the sand, and turning as prickly as the thorns I pulled from between my toes. But I think the impressions, like the dust, will stick on me for while, like it does on the faces of the children whose beautiful smiles reached me through their veil of grime. It will take time to unravel my experiences. There are many stories to be told.
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