Starry Complexities

Art by: LuviiiLove

I can already imagine it, with starry complexity. We will linger at the space station, floating around to haunting piano music softly diffusing across the universe, echoing down lonely black holes and asteroid fields. We’ll hang the clothes to dry on one of Saturn’s rings. On Saturdays (Or however we decide to name it) we’ll have barbecues on the sun and plant artificial roses on dwarf planets and dying stars for a pilot whose plane has crashed to find someday. We’ll pluck stars from space and rearrange the cosmos, play tennis with asteroids and write messages with our fingers across nebulae for Earth to see.

We can hide on the moon, sometime. Lie down in the sea of tranquility and tell corny jokes about how we aimed for the moon. We can close our eyes and move to the dark side, and pretend Earth doesn’t exist. We’ll live out our days in an alcove on a planet no one will ever discover.

We’ll make paperboats, watch them sail and burn in a constellation of stars. We could even reach inside one of them, our hands travelling all the way to the molten core, and touch someone’s consciousness. We could whisper to the stars and tell them what happened to other stars, billions of years ago, tell them how they shattered and turned into people. Do you wonder if stars tell their children that when you die, you become a human? A faraway life, on a small blue planet. So, children if you want to say hi, all you have to do is shine bright and they will know who you are? I wonder if humans are star-ghosts?

We could also hollow out one of the planets, and make home inside.

Trust me, we will never get lost. I have the universe inside of me. Did you know that there are more synapses in the human brain than there are stars in our Milky Way? And there are more possible brain connectivity patterns than there are atoms in the Universe? Our minds are larger and more infinite than the Universe. We are multitudes, eternal matter in perishable bodies.

“When we die,” you ask “do you think we go back to being stars? Do you think that some part of us goes into space? Like, the parts that used to be our eyes, when they rot and become dirt and minerals in the Earth, then feed a tree that later gets turned into wood brought on a spaceship—do you think I could see the universe then? Do you think I could get to be a part of it then? That I will be welcomed, like a missing limb, and I will finally remember? And slowly, like that, the Universe will start being whole again.”

“But you’ll forget me then, you’ll forget Earth.” I say.

“Not if you come with me.” you smile “Then we’ll forget about the lives we had here. But it’s okay, because you and I, we go way back, we were stars together. Then, we can remember who we were meant to be all along.”

Listening to:

Note: This is Day 25 of my NaNoWriMo Writing Challenge. I’m afraid with this one, I totally pretended like Science wasn’t a real thing. Don’t shove your hands down molten cores of stars, kids. You’ll be dead before you even get to try. You can read my previous entry for the challenge here. Also, ‘more infinite’ isn’t…really a thing. But eh, dramatics amirite.



The Intern and the Day That Was Not So Bad (Mainly Because It Was A Friday)

So, during the storm, Mrs Q’s desktop (an old, ancient steam-run machine) was destroyed not by flames, not by a short-circuit either. No, this mighty beast would not fall to such weak adversaries. No, it was the water that dripped from the ceiling that did it. And it was not even a waterfall, by any means. Not even a stream’s worth of water. Just… annoying little droplets. A mighty beast, indeed. May it rest in peace.

So now, because good things only happen to me, Mrs Q is sharing my desk and my (not actually mine) computer. Now, I do not dislike Mrs Q. She has a very calm energy about her that I appreciate. But I have to admit I dislike her elbows. Especially when they’re accidentally befriending my stomach or upper arms. On another note though, believe it or not, today was actually *gasp* busy.

I mean, I only stared off into space for about 10 minutes every hour. That’s how serious it was. The whole office had broken out of a lethargic spell, instead moving around in a frenzy, like hens after a fox has stolen their eggs. Faxes were coming in every 20 minutes, mails needed to be sent, people had to reached.

But as someone who has been a university student, this was nothing. Nothing. But everyone in the office was breathless and panicking. Mrs. Hautemante only had time for one home call today. And the secretary Mrs Emile was…well, she was chill. She was just sipping her tea, overlooking the whole thing, like Caesar watching gladiators fight it out. And oh, did Mrs H. just draw blood from Mrs Q.? Who would have thought? Dreadful, dreadful business, office work…

But it is in the midst of all this ‘chaos’ that everyone suddenly remembers that: “Hey… you know…we have an intern? 😏😈”

I actually worked today. And even though it mostly consisted of Word documents and Excel sheets (the horror), it was fun, in a way. To work as a team.

And oh, lunch was all sorts of ethereal.

You see, I’ve been reading when I can. Because I surmise that it is not an activity they can really call you out for, like: “Hey, you young person there! You future of our nation, put that book down!”. And boy, the book I have been reading. After the Holy Trinity of Dystopias (Namely, “Brave New World”, “1984” and “Fahrenheit 451”) it somehow fit in so well. It was my first time reading Terry Pratchett and I have zero regrets. The book I read was the wackiest, cleverest, funniest and most absurd thing in existence. Something to help escape from the overwhelming normalcy of the office and to shake off the scent of Excel sheets clinging to my skin. And I did it surrounded by trees and greenery, somewhere I could hear the rustling contact of wind and leaves, where the sunlight danced in spots of warmth over cream paper.

Yes, ‘Moist’.

I mean, just…just take a look. Also, Spoiler Alert for “Going Postal” by Terry Pratchett!


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And after that kind of lunch —alone, reading a book beneath a tree, with just a trace of wind and spots of sunlight— who could really remember what happened next?


2 a.m. In My Part of the World

Art by: Aenami

I fell asleep to the sounds of thunder ripping apart the skies, and to the pitter-patter of rain soothing its pains. The vaporous veil of sleep fluttered against my eyelids and I fell gently into unconsciousness, the way a feather flutters to the ground.

Later, I awoke to a semi-realistic world and to puddles left on my balcony. My fingers, which had been so gently stained by watercolour, probed the cool surface. Once, a younger version of me had believed that there were forgotten cities and dormant forests hidden on the other side of puddles. That, if you weren’t careful (or if came your time for an adventure) your curious, probing finger would get sucked into whole other worlds. Other times, an older, quieter me would glide her fingers over these cool puddles and believe they were portals to places where it had also rained in the world. But not many people knew that.

I imagined my heart growing, aching as it did, as I left the lonely morning  in my part of the world to reach a cold balcony bathed in night, in some restless city. And right there, would be another version of me. Someone who did not look like me, who did not speak the language I did, who did not believe the things I did. But someone just like me in all the ways that mattered. Someone with a flickering inner light, cloaked in gentle loneliness.

There would be wonder. Delight. Two flickering lights would halfway meet, and like the dying fire of two candles, would each rekindle the other. There was a lot of quietness, of bathing in the soft glow of unspoken friendship, of not being alone on cold nights.

But there was an ache, too. The piercing constriction and expansion of hearts growing redder, fuller. As the night wore on, dreams and fears spilled into the milky way, over the city. There was something so simple and yet so singularly important about it. About sharing an overwhelming loneliness into the uncaring night.

The stars witnessed it all.

But they never saw the goodbyes that were really farewells, the “sleep wells” that veritably meant: “Please have a good life, be happy. I’m rooting for you.”. Because it was only by morning that the puddles would dry and life on the other side would call.  And we would never meet again. Because the same kind of rain never falls twice.

And now, today, on my balcony, as I watch the clear yet somber skies, I remember all the people I have thought of in my life. All those idle moments when I realised: “Oh! It’s someone’s birthday today!” or “Someone in the world is doing the exact thing I am doing right now.” and “I wonder how many other people are watching the exact same moon in this moment.”.

So know that if one day you’ve wondered about a stranger on the other side of the world,  if you’ve lived through 2 that seemed surreal and strangely detached, if one lonely night you have thought of me, I have thought of you, too.


These Afternoons When We Were Young

Art by 와이알

These afternoons, as the sun warms my desk in streaks of golden light, as the end of the working day is near, and yet so far away, when I get to take a break from being an anonymous intern, I keep remembering the days when I was young and tragically beautiful.

When I was there but never quite so, all swept up in my own world, walled off by all the books I would read. Back in those days when the character from my book was the perfect representation of the romantic hero, and that being the case, so was I. He was beautiful with sad eyes. With longings only he could understand and dreams only he could reach. And all the others, wary and awed, watched his life unravel, secretly wishing they were in on that marvelous secret that was his world.

He sat in quiet, blooming gardens or by a stream, behind the school yard or in places no one would ever look for him in. The sunlight falling through the leaves like freckles on his face, the wind softly blowing the overlong hair back and forth across a cold, pensive face. And often, I would be somewhere under the shade of an ancient tree, a book or journal tucked safely under my arm, utterly detached from this Earth though being so close to its roots. I read about a shy young boy, yet to be a man and the way he only started living in the summer of his 15th year.

I remember the afternoons that were golden and too warm, when we spoke together of hidden castles and a love that vanished without a trace of having ever been. I remember the heaviness in our stomachs as we breathed in the scent of death that now covered young, innocent love. As our eyes clouded with grief and something gripped at our ribs, wanting to pry them open. I remember closing my eyes and hoping the words would change—that, somehow, love would grow and so would life. But no tears can rewrite a story, even as they spill on the ink and distort the writing.

Before the tears, I remember falling asleep to the soft, droning voice that read the freshness of the woods, and the clearness of blue eyes and a fantasy that happened, hidden somewhere between cities that had not yet been built. I slowly faded out of consciousness, reality blurring with the warmth of the evening. That moment, it was something fragile and quiet and all my own.

I remember being saved by people I would never meet. Characters that once might have been alive, but who died with the people who brought them to life on cream-coloured paper. People whose fates are now forever lost. Somewhere in a plane crashed in the Mediterranean sea, or in the French woods, covered by moss.

“He did not desire her,” I remember the soft voice saying, “No, they loved each other in strong bonds of friendship.”

I had never read something so deliberately. Nor, I suspect, will I ever. I was tragically young and hungry, hungry for words and experiences that I know well enough now. There is no mystery left. No tragedy to my ephemerality. Too old, too weary now to be that person with the sad eyes.

But even now, I want to eat the book sometimes. Or find some other way to swallow the pages, to find some means to make it stay with me. There were other times, too, when I looked at the name on the front of the cover, traced it and thought: ” I am touching a part of your soul. If only you knew.”

“If only you had known what you would be, maybe, maybe…”


Note: This one is about a book that is very dear to my heart. Something I studied as a teen, as part of my French literature classes. If you’d like to know the title, leave me a message (Aha, I’m a little protective over it) and I’ll get back to you ^^

The Intern and the Day Off (Already?!)

Because we all ugly-sleep, and there’s no shame in that

So, the intern is staying home today. Sinking blissfully in soft, warm blankets, listening to the rain fall.

Today, the intern is not going to work.

In fact…Nobody is.

Because there’s a huge storm threatening the country.

The intern is caught in a moral dilemma: wishing the storm would last longer so that I— she, I mean she—could stay in bed for a few more days, or wishing the storm would go away and leave the good people of this country alone.

The intern sighs. It’s hard being an intern sometimes.

In the end, the storm reaches a critical point for only 2 days.

And come the third day, the intern begrudgingly sets her alarm clock again.

Note: You can read the previous part of my ‘The Intern’ series here! (I swear it’s longer than this one lol)

On the Other Side of Consciousness

Art by: Pride Nyasha 

I wanted to not write happy things. To not grow or move on or wish for anything. I wanted to lay down in a field and let the blue and purple flowers overcome me. To let their tender, fragrant petals push gently through muscle and vein as though I were a giving patch of Earth like any other.

I did not want to be great or good. I did not wish to face my past, to rise to the future or to even seize the moment. I wanted nothing to do with any kind of time-keeping. I wanted to rip out all my connections to the world and stuff all the ports, the cable access points with pale blue flowers. I wanted to turn off the gravity switch for all the thoughts orbiting around my head. I wanted to run away from destiny, to erase all the lines carved in my palms and all the scars I had earned. I would not have hesitated to slice any red thread that dangled from my finger with the same scissors still gleaming with strands of my hair. I wanted to not chase truths or mysteries. To not be bound to anything but my heartbeats, my breaths.

All I wanted was to lie down. To be, in the simplest form. I needed time to be with myself. Myself, not the voices. Not the part claimed by rising smoke. Nor the one filled with emptiness. When that happens, when I am with myself, when our silences align, there is nothing left. No plans, no voices. Not even poetry or music. Only the Earth, the flowers and I travelling around the sun.

Only the flowers blooming through my lungs remain, only the petals intertwined with my lashes, blossoming in my breath. Distantly, my fingers ran through the softness of the earth the way hands sift through a loved one’s hair. And when I held it, felt it in my palms, it was rich and consistent and true.

I wanted to paint myself the colour of Earth, but realising I already was, I dipped the paintbrush in wintry blues and pale purples, watching gardens slowly grow on my skin.

The Intern Has Lunch

mean girls
Still from: Mean Girls

Today, before lunchtime, I had already gotten through the day’s work (because in spite of everything, I am someone who must be the best at everything I do because else, what’s the point really). But seeing, seeing as how I AM IN AN OPEN OFFICE. OPEN OFFICE.


Ahem, yes. So, seeing as how I am in an open office, I couldn’t really be caught slacking by the secretary who was watching youtube videos or by Mrs H., next to me, who was making home calls as she is wont to do. No, I was too new for that. So, I just…clicked. Click click.


Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick. (Furious clicking to signify frustration, because I am a serious person).

Cliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick. And a good long one. (I don’t know what this one signifies, it just felt like a nice addition. Like something a serious office worker would do).

I involved myself wholeheartedly into the act of clicking as a way to ignore the clock that had struck 12 (the hour of sweet, sweet relief). Because everyone was still busy working hard at their personal lives. (At this point, the secretary, Mrs Emile, was whisper-shouting at her husband about pension plans and feeding the cat). Either way, I couldn’t be the first one to move to eat.

Click click

……………………………………………Click click

………………………………………………………………………………………..Click click

🎵Clicking away my lunch time🎵

Until, mercifully, the purple-clad angel that was Mrs. H, in all her extroverted splendour asked if I wasn’t going to have lunch. At which point I masterfully let out an innocent: “Oh, what, it’s lunch time already? :O”



“Working too hard, that’s why you didn’t notice!”




Yeah…So hard. But let it be known that should anyone wish to bring harm to my lady Mrs Hautemante, they would have to go through me first. It’s weird, but every time I start working somewhere, I always get irrationally attached to/protective of one particular individual. It’s weird too, because essentially, for all intents and purposes, I kindof hate people. The last time, it was the proofreader: an old, thin man, named something very French, like Jean-Pierre or something. Whom I only heard swear once when the Académie Française decided to mess a bunch of things up in order to simplify the language. I remember word-to-word what he said, too. (“Mais ces messieurs de l’Académie Française, excuse-moi pour le terme, mais ce sont des cons! Des cons ces messieurs-là!”) *

So, lunch was a lonely business.

Like, lonely lonely.

When I was mostly unemployed (How is one mostly unemployed, you ask?) I cherished silent lunches alone with my thoughts. But to be honest, today was a little sad. I didn’t know where exactly people took their lunches and everyone had gone out.

So I wandered out, sat alone and ate my cold sandwich that I had made in a rush that morning. Afterwards, I had about 40 minutes of lunch break left and there seemed to be nothing to do but contemplate the silence. I didn’t like it.

Every silence is different. This one was not self-imposed. It just happened and I was a little stuck inside of it.

I again had trouble with the whole time thing when the clock neared 4 (I was almost sobbing in relief ). At 3:58:49( I COUNTED) no one was making a move to leave. Strangely, I admired their determination to work, even at something I thought was  boring. I mean, really, office workers work harder than we give them cred—aaaaaaaaaand it’s 4 and everyone is gone.

Well, let it not be said that office workers are not efficient.

*”These gentlemen from the French Academy, excuse me for the language, but they are idiots/imbeciles! Imbeciles, these gentlemen!”

Note: It really wasn’t as bad or as lonely as it sounds~ I’m a grown adult lol. It’s just things that happen when you start somewhere or something new. So cheer up! (But I just had to use that photo, didn’t I 😛 )

The Intern and the Printer


I stapled my first document today. I feel like I have been initiated.

It felt like Mrs Q. was just going to go around all the departments, waving the printed paper around, hiking up the Big Boss’ desk like it was the Pride Rock and she was Rafiki.

And my stapled document was Simba and—Nyaaaaaaa tsigoyaaaa Mama gi ttttii babaaaaa

And okay, here’s the thing:

They’re hiring.

If I do well, it has been suggested (by all and then some more) that I could get a job.


I do not like the prospect of unemployment. Of no money in the bank. You could even say they are fairly coercive factors. But employment. As in a contract. As in: “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to mind these cuffs around your Time and Opportunities, would you?”. See, they can have the ‘now’. The now where my time and opportunities are just taking a cruise around the world. But to stake a claim on my maybes, where everything, where a lot lies…Nuuuuuhhhh.

On another note, the big boss makes dad jokes and speaks in exaggerated french, like a rushed Parisian (not uncommon in these parts). Today’s joke:

“You’re here early!” I was. “I was just sitting here to watch who would be late.” to which I replied okay. And to which he then laughed, giggled almost. “I’m joking, I’m joking.” he said.

Are you…are you looking for the joke? Because it’s right there. That was it. That was the joke. And you know what the most insane thing is? Everyone else gets it. Everyone knows he’s ‘joking’. Yeah. Apparently, it’s a bit of an honour to be joked with, too. Let’s just say, the big boss is really big. He’s pretty important in that kind of world. Some would even say the most important.

I also printed my first document today (so many firsts!). I’m a little put-off that Mrs Q. didn’t start quietly sniffling in the corner, occasionally dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, shaking her head at how they do grow up so fast, don’t they? Just yesterday I didn’t know her, and now look! Even printing things.

But guess what I printed.

No, really, guess.

Something so quintessentially office worker you could bottle it and sell it as a perfume (Eau De Printer No. 3)  and everyone would know what it smelled like.

An e-mail.

That’s what I printed. I don’t even know why they made me print it. I never used it later. (Lies, I doodled on the paper. I doodle on paper the way a dog pees on lampposts: it’s compulsive).

So, in good news today, I may or may not have found our Earth’s killers. Like, we can just tell hard-working scientists around the world to take it easy for now. Someone just call Green Peace and Nat Geo and show them the OBSCENE AMOUNTS OF PAPER WE USE.

But do you think office workers are contractually obligated to print things? And that somewhere, there’s a trembling earth-lover, quietly rebelling, getting nervous when they haven’t printed something in a while, afraid their co-workers will get suspicious?


Here, for your enjoyment:

Also, how am I ever going to be able to write something serious again after “I doodle on paper the way a dog pees on lampposts”?

The Intern’s First Day

Art by: Unknown Artist

I walked in, a proud journalist.

My glasses glinting with righteousness and truth like Clark Kent at the Daily Planet, knowing I’d saved the world a few times before entering the building.

JK. I walked in behind my placement coordinator who, 5 minutes previously, had to warn a girl on the lift/elevator to not crush me with her bag because I’m not very tall and not very existent. I wish I was lying.

I was introduced.

People asked what I did (Like me being an intern here wasn’t…telling enough?) They were a bit impressed when I said writer, sometimes. Like they’d not quite had that breed of human in their midst yet. I’m also into technology, I spurred on. That was not really received. It didn’t matter much. Everyone knew how to use Word and Facebook.

I was shown a desk with a desktop and those old clacky keyboards that still have massive buttons. But right beside it was a handsome, swiveling leather chair that supported your back divinely. It belonged to someone else, as it happens. Someone who was on vacation. Whose aforementioned vacay prompted the ‘need’ for an intern.

Ay, thanks for the job Mrs A. Now, will you please return and kick me out?

But let me tell you about the people I work with. All women, save for the big boss. My supervisor is a middle-aged woman. Fair-skinned, lightly dusted with freckles and with a pretty face. But people don’t seem to realise that because she’s kind and unassuming. Well, for the time being, let’s call her Mrs…Quatrd’aile. Because that just came off the top of my head.

And then Mrs H. Or Mrs Hautemante, if you will. She brings in the office chatter and liveliness. She’s constantly making home calls with the office phone. Today, she wore an all-pink dress. It was arresting.  She’s the kind of person you always wonder about how they got stuck in an office. But there’s probably regulation somewhere that says you need at least one lively/extroverted person in an office. Else nobody would want to work in one.

Then there’s the secretary Mrs…Emile? Greying, curly hair. Nice but not inclined to small talk (Thank God for small favours. Well…aside maybe from the big favour of actually getting the internship. Because as much as I’m complaining, this internship is still a ‘good’ thing. It brings in e x p e r i e n c e. If you do it in a fancy enough place, well…even  copy-pasting comes to count for something ).

It only occurred to me that I hated the work as the day ended at 4. Like, one moment I was all *Intense copy-pasting* and the next I genuinely remarked to myself: “Wow, I  actually hate this :)”

On the way home, I realised that I was actually going to have to go tomorrow as well.

And that was the exact moment when Ilah.exe stopped working.





The Soul-Sucking Journey of the Young Adult Internship

“If you’re going to sell your soul, might as well make sure it goes at a good price.”

So, I have run into an unavoidable entity of the modern young adult experience: the internship.

I didn’t run into it, either, so to speak. I sent a kind email. I’m lucky enough it’s a paid one. I’ve been an intern before, mind you. Wrote little articles for a newspaper (Mainly deaths, really. Traffic accidents. Thefts and the occasional make-up artist), and then another internship for a website. But this…this is different.

It prompted a thought I had never thought before:

“If you’re going to sell your soul, might as well make sure it goes at a good price.”

At least with the newspaper, there was something exciting about getting mail from the police division. Imagining thefts, murders, motives, family drama and all that inheritance hidden in vaults. Then writing about it, adding that hidden story in the spaces between the words, in invisible ink. Hoping someone would read the Sunday newspaper and find that piece of imagination in the insignificant miscellaneous section.

But this internship.

One does really understand why it’s a paid internship.

Usually, interns are the company mules. Doing all the odd jobs, the tiring shifts. Fetching coffee in the hopes of catching some experience and some semblance of a network in between revolving office doors.

But this internship?

I am well-fed. Well taken care of. People constantly ask if the workload is alright. They smile back at you.

But see, I have, so far, only been using two of my brain cells. One that stores information about how to copy, and the other on how to paste. I have decided to name them. One is called Anseline and the other Clemence. Or maybe Bob and Joe.

My pride (Yes, my pride, not me.) is indignant. Me, a journalism graduate (with not much desire to become a journalisty journalist), me, who wrote about petty thefts and make-up artists! Me who…has a blog? Yes, me. Stuck at a lovely desk, copying and pasting the whole day away. It feels like sometimes I copy and paste the minutes, too. And that, accidentally, the whole work day turns into a 16 hour one instead. Imagine copy-pasting the whole day. Then being asked if it’s too hard. Like, I used to program, Susan. Respectfully, and with thanks, I can copy-paste.

And that, is why they pay you for it.

If someone has a tonne of work to do, and they hire an intern, it’s because they usually can’t afford a regular worker. So you can bet, in those situations, that you won’t get paid. And that you will do all the work, one way or the other.

But someone who has the money to pay an intern…doesn’t really need an intern. From my experience, that is. They just need a few documents on their desk every now and then. Nothing too intensive.

As I am writing this, a stack of boxes containing ‘high quality’ paperclips made in china is staring at me. They even have one of those little claw machines (like a stapler) that removes the staples from documents. Gulp.

Office supplies, everywhere. Perforators. Binders. Staples.

Why are there office supplies everywhere?!

Holy C— I’m in an office.

Note: So this, I’m not sure if it’ll become a series (Although my notebook says otherwise). But I thought maybe it was time to touch up on the ‘Young Adult’ part of this blog. Something less whimsical. The style of this is much different from what I normally write. But as I explore my writing, I uncover the desire of trying new things.

Besides, I’ve always been pretty sarcastic. And for someone who so often writes about dreamy things, I’ve got a pretty dark sense of humour. For this particular kind of writing, I might actually look at the response. Usually, even if a series is not well-received, I’ll still post it.  But with this one, since the style and content are so different, it might make the blog look like it’s confused about what it wants to be. Ideally, I would argue that since both kinds of writing come from one and the same brain, that it’s not incompatible. But we’ll see.

Writing Postcards On A Rainy Day

Art by: Unknown

I wish I could send you this rainy morning. I wish I had the ability to bottle up today’s atmosphere and put it in the mail, or send it as an attachment. But because I can’t, I’ll tell you what it was made out of so you can make it for yourself:

Writing postcards on a rainy day.

Watching, every now and then, the neighbour’s clothes getting soaked on the line.

Steam gently billows from my mug, warm and comforting. Between cold hands, the mug gives off a feeling earthy like the clay it was made out of. Then there are the spectacles fogging from the steam. And the fritters, golden brown and impossibly round, soft and sweet, still too hot to eat.

Then you have to add memories from earlier this morning: bare feet on cold tiles and reverent silence. Later, the silence is interrupted, enhanced by the melody of rain on rooftops. The orchestra softly fades in and then reaches a crescendo that never seems to end.

Then you add heat:

Turning on the stove, handling the soft, risen dough balls sprinkled with flour. Carefully placing them in the pan. Sighing contently as the gentle sounds of the dough frying reaches your ears. The cold air wraps around you, the petrichor sinks into your skin, cold droplets of rain escape through the wondrously still open windows, splashing fresh and wild in your hair.

Yeah, I really wish I could send this to you. As a small, transient microcosm, a one-use capsule. But life seems to be taking care of itself today, so I am almost certain that this would reach you somehow, even if I were to make a paperboat of this letter and send it racing down the gutter.