The words slip away between the days, catch on to the hem of the weeks.
Summer dawdles in the direction of autumn.
They might be shorter, but packed they remain; I'm nevertheless grateful for less sunlight and the knowledge that even the hell of (this) summer shall end.
And the days slip and slide into-and-between the words (that I never write) so much so that the weight of the unwritten becomes unbearable, so much so that one either writes or throws oneself (quite happily) off a bridge.
I walk to and through the Company Gardens for solace and to soak up nature, as much as one can do in the heart of the city, albeit a nature-rich city like this one. A set of shutters at the National Library soaked in the morning light as if it were dew, soothes and then quenches my brittleish soul: Never ever kill a mockingbird.
"Mockingbirds don’t do one thing except make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corn cribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” ― Harper Lee,