There is a room; its walls are covered in fabric. Some has come from the old shops in the middle of Cairo. Some from down the street. From the ceiling hangs cloth, sew together it forms a canopy. During the day small lite filters through the thin material covering the windows. When a breeze gently moves it, it seems as if the room is breathing. The floor is covered with many different rugs, one from the northern Sahara.

There is a writer’s table in the corner. It came from a trade, but you can feel its presents. What words have been written on it are not known, but they are now part of it, just like van Gogh self-portrait. Since inside the room there have been very few words written on it, but it seems that will change.

There is a rocker that Sarah’s grandfather use to sit on and a small table by its side. Coffee and raw cream is sipped mostly on Saturday morning and other mornings when work can wait. And then sometimes in the evening with a glass of wine.

On rare occasions a candle is lite. It is in the darkness that calmness comes. It is always there and waits patiently for new thoughts to come.