Misr-Mizraim-Egypt

Timelessness goes up on trial in the abandoned synagogue of Fustat (Cairo), standing in there (unless our guide has lied, we could of been in some other ruins) with nothing to be seen. Brittle pasts, shards of consciousness leave me exhausting dust motes creeping out of the attic, at one time having contained genizah documents of the Jewish communities' of the last 800yrs, in Afro-Asia. Like stale consecrated bread (matzoh), aged asceticism is the same mourn, whether or not a more perfect history/utopia (to jump from) suffices in one's self-actualization, OR the fight is lost on us to carry the exploded tear of Job on those who'd wince at such empathy. It is all given up to the Most-I, the One who intercedes before I'm received in any confederate way to my peers--like a house maiden who slips a coaster under my hotter-bottle (which gets hotter each time it is reached for), so it can never actually reach the table. And when the tables are turned, I can't believe its just a diminutive me I'm looking at--or maybe a macro-me? A gazelle-attribute, as is applied in the West to actresses is apropos for the mottled-schemed worshippers & slaves on the walls of various after-life pharisaic digs: the Sun seemingly stifling the contours of the adherents with its radiance. The Sun of Akhenaton. ......there has been Talmudic claims as well as from the Qu'ran that Job was from Egypt, in the company of Balaam, the gentile prophet.