On my way home I smoked a cigarette

So here I was walking down the broken street, split in two, with its insides out, like a dead carcass, with a nascent cement structure looming at the very end, in the middle of this strange, surreal space. Not that urban planning makes much sense, if any sense at all in Cairo, or any kind of planning that is.
A few more puffs of my cigarette, as I strolled along the dim-lit street, I kept thinking this is not New York, and regardless of my own dyfunctionality, there is not much sex happening here.
Ever since I arrived back from Berlin, revamped my "image", or rather "reinvented" it, to be more Pop-correct, and after I sowed my seeds I waited for them to grow and bloom.
Well, the only blooming that happened was of my realization of how impossible it is for anything to actually take place in Cairo.
Four of my dearest friends, already left Cairo, making me wonder about what everyone does for their future, what everyone does for what they think is right, what they think is the right thing to do.
A few more puffs, the road is still broken, and dusty and I am still walking alone in this dim-lit street.
But what do men in Cairo want?
What does Cairo want?
Is the answer far too simple for me to realize it, or I know, for the life of me, I know exactly what men in Cairo want.
The question remains do I want what men in Cairo want?
Do I want Cairo?
Having one friend after the other slip away what a terrible feeling it is, to feel left behind.
In Cairo.
With no men!