In the bottom of Baker Hall, the building in which I work at CMU, there's a book collection programme, which advertises that it's to ship the books to poor people in Africa. It sounds like a good idea, but yesterday, when I walked by, I noticed that the collection of books that people are donating is amusingly ill-suited. Among the worst is the very large collection of SAT/GRE prep books. I'm sure that people over there are going to appreciate test prep material for a test conducted in a country thousands of miles away on another continent. Perhaps people should send them maps of Sydney Australia, as well.

Pittsburgh's emptiness is a mirror, and I do not want to see my face in that reflection. Someday, I will come back for you, and closed doors will be opened again. Such is the promise. The writing rests on the wall, a material remnant of an illusory past. Bits expelled from a crayon, a paradox. You hope for things that are selfish, fingernails dig into savior's hands. On this side of the Canid, I can't see your eyes. A fresh, salty wave washes over, and the sting of its invasion cues a flee from the standoff.

Qatar is aiming to rotate into the security council, and hopes to play its unique role as an Arab Nation friend to Israel to do it. Interesting.