‘Segments of blurred non-fiction’
It’s Friday, we are eating phở and talking of boys.
He had walked silently back into the ocean, or maybe he was just a group delusion.
You could choose to listen to them all as separate entities or you could look at them all as a singular new.
A great fog holds the same silence as a great snow.
There, there is never a disturbance in missing out.
Staring at my failure, half of George stares back.
And, when you find yourself meeting people on street corners you must ask yourself why that is. What is your “God” trying to give you?
We were living.
I am always running late.
That the soul would be given the chance to breathe.
The Stories of the Saturdays in September.
