No one asks about anything in this Riyadh. In this city, they are accustomed to its monotony, its indifference, and its noisy silence, and that the walls have ears. A deep silence that unites everything. Its counterpart is the noise of the streets and houses, a raw noise that has no meaning in a city that does not know whether it is religious or decadent. A city, but what is in its heart. It does not have on its tongue a city that sleeps on a huge pile of words that have not yet been said, a city that silences its voice like a pot, with a muffled smell that has been boiling for a long time inside of it. The smell wants to spread, and people may know that the smell of something will spread in the atmosphere of the city and spread what is hidden after they have accumulated. The talk and they slept over it. Do I love this garden or hate it?