You were supposed to pick the Asics pair, but the mind is still trapped in that bonk. At the florist, you weighed words and lines. You must have stood there for hours staring at the words, the lines and then the distant face.
What did you get? This widening hollow in which the writer in you kept sinking. You thought it would be nice if she could come, even for once, after all the bitterness, to look at you and to look at what you have curated for her.
The morning caffeinated person says the bonk belongs to yesterday. Oh, yes the trainers, and the mist-engulfed track where you barely recognise faces. You meant to go, you wanted to jump off. The emergency exit couldn't be pulled off; you wished had done so holding that book in which the person's occupation is thinking, yes, you have been thinking. But you haven't made money with the thinking. Why those three-piece suited 'gentle folks' and the ever-smiling few shower you all the reverence a medieval knight would have been bestowed by the plebs? It distracts and alienates you, further.
They have come in bits from here and there, and the thinking filters it. The shoes are not mere footwear, one had to know the craft; even the ceramic bonk is no lesser than the Sultan's, you see, you are thinking and when you deliver those few words you measure them like that smooth round pebble you would carry in your pocket; then you look at the world, the people of happy faces, weeping lots, or the melancholy ones, just like that child's face; and there are those who can stand the banters and the puns.
So what do you? How do you conduct yourself? Should you be talking fame? But they say they scratch each others' back. What about that classroom, their minds are too young; you don't want to corrupt them. Oh, yes, there is also the desk where you spend hours with the red pencil and approve with your fountain pen. Perhaps it's the age.
What did you get? This widening hollow in which the writer in you kept sinking. You thought it would be nice if she could come, even for once, after all the bitterness, to look at you and to look at what you have curated for her.
The morning caffeinated person says the bonk belongs to yesterday. Oh, yes the trainers, and the mist-engulfed track where you barely recognise faces. You meant to go, you wanted to jump off. The emergency exit couldn't be pulled off; you wished had done so holding that book in which the person's occupation is thinking, yes, you have been thinking. But you haven't made money with the thinking. Why those three-piece suited 'gentle folks' and the ever-smiling few shower you all the reverence a medieval knight would have been bestowed by the plebs? It distracts and alienates you, further.
They have come in bits from here and there, and the thinking filters it. The shoes are not mere footwear, one had to know the craft; even the ceramic bonk is no lesser than the Sultan's, you see, you are thinking and when you deliver those few words you measure them like that smooth round pebble you would carry in your pocket; then you look at the world, the people of happy faces, weeping lots, or the melancholy ones, just like that child's face; and there are those who can stand the banters and the puns.
So what do you? How do you conduct yourself? Should you be talking fame? But they say they scratch each others' back. What about that classroom, their minds are too young; you don't want to corrupt them. Oh, yes, there is also the desk where you spend hours with the red pencil and approve with your fountain pen. Perhaps it's the age.
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