I am sitting in a restaurant at Arat Kilo. The place is more crowded than I thought it would be. And the speaker is blasting some old Amharic song I can’t seem to remember who the singer is. I don’t mind being in a crowded space. With so many conversations going on at the same time. Add in car honks. And loud music; you have your recipe for an absolute pandemonium. But it helps. Somehow. It helps drown out the voices in my head, the countless conversations going on simultaneously. When I imagine my mind, I picture a place like this outdoor restaurant. At rush hour. Where everybody is having beer after a long days work.

I picture tables arranged haphazardly. Because I am sure the voices would not make up their mind and agree on how to arrange the tables and chairs. They never agree on anything. Ever. I wonder if there would be waiters. Hmm. I have never thought of that before. Would there be waiters? What would be on the menu? Of course, it would be me. I always seem to be their favorite topic. Something to be dissected in to different pieces. Like a frog in biology class. I don’t like frogs. I think they are slimy. Are they really gin? Or are toads the ones that are slimy? Aren’t they the same thing? They look the same. At least to me. I wouldn’t tell the differnce. Where was I? Ah. Yes, the restaurant! What would it be called, I wonder? The restaurant in my brain? My brain that is like a restaurant. Crowded. At every hour of every day. Would they have a name for it? Would they even agree on a name? They never agree. On anything. Ever. But I feel like I have said that before. I have. I still can’t remember the name of the singer. It is annoying. Not the song. Not remembering. I wish I could not remember so many things. So many things. It would have made everything easier. So much easier. But you can count on the voices to remember everything. Everything. They remember what I was doing with that person at that specific time on that day at that specific palace. They remember everything. Things I don’t want them to. Things I don’t want to remember. But they do. And so I do. I’d call it “do you mind”. The restaurant in my brain. The restaurant that is my brain. Always crowded. It would be a question and a statement. “Do you mind?”, “Do you, Mind.” And a very bad pun. I’m bad at puns. But I can punctuate. I think. Punctuation is important. A comma can save your life. A comma can also kill you. If you never wake up. Well, you won’t die if you don’t wake up from a comma. You’d be alive. Technically. And you you’d also be dead. Technically. Punctuation is important. Punctuation ca Ha! I remember the singer! It’s Neway! Fuck! I can’t remember his last name!

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