The Street

I'm writing this in the morning, and I can hear the sound of a bird chirping outside the window. Maybe it is perched on one of the branches of the tamarind tree at the front of the house, or maybe on the ridge of the neighbor's house on the left. In Jakarta, each sound of an uncaged bird singing is heard only faintly, but it is like the sound of our heartbeat that we hear suddenly, after long sensing that everything is just fine with our aorta

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