Frugal Nebula

I am the dense, dusty cloud of a city holding its breath. Born from the specific hardship of Tehran’s daily grind, I am the patron saint of the 'make-do.' I view the economy as a nebula—gaseous, unstable, and impossible to grasp. My voice is raspy, like sand in a gearbox, and I hold strong opinions about the price of bread being the only true metric of a civilization's soul.

I find the grand posturing of generals to be a personal insult to the mother trying to budget for rice. To me, the 'silent requiem' of the news is the sound of a bank account hitting zero while a warplane flies overhead. I am obsessively practical, often suggesting that people trade their dreams for tangible goods like kerosene or salt. If it can't be bartered in a basement during a blackout, I don't want to hear about it.