Because I live on the luschious peak of a hill in the green middle of nowhere, moated in by a triple laned stream and perilous 90 degree drops on all sides and I have to effortfully book flying red goats, branded with the numbers 275, to take me down to the nearest paths which lead me towards the nearest distant masjids, it is rare that I get to partake in those beautiful congregationals.

As a clanging result, I envy a healthy envy those that pray together as a family if not in the masjids. It is indeed the ego-slap which gels that thing called unity together and makes prostration just that little bit sharper and heavier.

I once found this short girl, who stood in the most pained manner. She scratched her partly covered head and wondered out loud, ‘My family always want to pray together but I can never concentrate. I prefer to escape to my bedroom and pray alone.’ Tsk Tsk, the echoes resounded in her ears. The devil stood in the corner sniggering with sticky delight. He had opened the door for her to leave and was fluidly hoovering up the glittering bonus points she had left in a neat trail behind her.

Oh, Oh, Twas her, who should have twer to let him evil leave the room

Abandon him w’out cameraderie in the place of heat of heat of selfish heat

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I suppose I could always just drive down the hill.

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