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:: Friday, November 24, 2006 ::
I come from Tehran and no, there are no camels where I come from. There are cars and honking taxis that pass women in black veils or short, colorful scarves that barely cover their heads. In this beautiful prison of banned dreams, there certainly isn't a statue of liberty; men and women liberate themselves with cafes, cigars, smuggled drugs and secret relationships. In America, I am a writer. I can imagine, dream, live, breathe as an Iranian, an American. I can add color to anything; if only I could paint the gray streets of Tehran with my words. To write, to do art, to make music, you gotta believe in something very passionately - to the point where it blocks out nearly everything else in your life. Blue Bird knows this one true thing.
:: Max 10:33 PM [+] ::
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