Where we enter the mouse hole cautiously, and with our hands running through our whiskers

Incessant Tom & Jerry watching means that I will always think of a mouse hole as this neatly carved out semi-circle in the wall.

Ok. That is what is referred to as a false start (hahahah – you) in literary circles.

Let us begin once again.

Wriggles pant upwards, ignoring belt’s distinct reluctance to cooperate with said movement.


I was thinking of starting this society of bikers who purposely go slow around and before ambulances. Like keep coming in their way and trying to slow them down, even as the ambulance sirens are wailing and screaming. That is what the society members would do. All day, every day.

So disturbed.


Went and gobbled me a sizzler the other day. It is such pointless dish, the sizzler. Like the sizzle adds no flavour whatsoever. All you have is this super hot plate and steam fucking up your vision.

But it was good cause it was pouring outside and the raindrops were hammering at the windows, so you could look out between bites and see the raindrops racing each other to the very bottom.

There is something inherently magical about rains. Water, actual drops of water, falling from the skies. Some straight down, others carried this way and that by the wind. Drops, actual drops, of water making music as they hit and crash and hop onto things, against things and over things.

Drops, actual fukin drops, of water running down your back and through your umbrella and onto your face.

What can I say.


Memories are the human version of movie reels I suppose. They too get affected by sun and time. They too are precious, often irreplaceable and need to be cared for and loved. Or ignored and forgotten.



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