Last night I had a dream that an angel come down unto me holding a key in her hands and uttering words of compassion and peace as in the distance an army's marching feet could be heard. We laid down on the sand of the sea and before us animosity stood and decreed that we speak not of love only blasphemy. We then saw a plague and a river of blood and every evil soul died in spite of their seven tears. There was a new city with streets of gold and no death for with every breath the voice of many colors sang a song so bold.
"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned. The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my beds...

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