Whether it is a touchscreen, a typewriter, or a vintage fountain pen, alone
is a five-letter word. But I’ve found that focussing on the writing implements
helps forget about that disturbing detail.
To think, a measly five characters could encompass my entire state of being.
Frankly, I’d rather be single. At least then I would attract condemnation,
not pity.
We didn’t invent death,
but we managed to industrialise it;
neither did we invent life,
and yet we pursue an obsession with immortality,
slowly losing the ability to distinguish silence
from the absence of sound.
To think, it all started with sin—our only invention.
Forgive me all my good deeds
and rejoice in the bad ones
I have done—grace making you fall asleep
and sin that exercised your virtue.
Remember, I’m always there
at your disposal, waiting for a nod,
as your only ally—yourself.
Where I live now, there is only one place where I can find a small flock of house sparrows.
It actually surprises me because, in the town I come from, they were basically everywhere.
I have always liked them with their chirping and constant bustle, and also, I guess, because
one was the hero of my favourite childhood cartoon. And therein lies the rub—at one point
or another, we all commit the sin of pathetic fallacy.
hidden pilcrow 