Roar of the engine and the buzz of the tires on asphalt fill your ears. The window is down, the warm wind slaps your face, tangles your hair, cools your skin. It’s hot and sunny, even in the early morning. People still go out for their walks to the market, sit under the trees, drive in their cars. They all rush past. I spent most of my life going through these same roads, yet they seem different every time. New buildings spring up, all in different stages of being built. Shor
As the dusk leaves its place to the night, the world seems to still. The constant breeze stops, not even a leaf moves. Frantic birds don’t shoot up from the trees, fuzzy bumble bees stop bumping into your arms, bells of the neighbouring goats lull. Smell of a newly lit barbecue lingers in the air. Some kids yell and laugh a few streets below, perhaps rushing to dinner. Eventually, the streetlights turn on, illuminating the near dark world. Then, the subtlest breeze picks up,
Bugs of the night chirp outside, like the static of the television. Otherwise, it’s quiet under the ancient olive trees. Maybe they’re not ancient, but all of the olive trees look ancient and weathered. On the road above a car drives past every now and then. They slow down to take the sharp turn, mostly going downhill, mostly going back to the large town for a good night’s sleep. The light faded some time ago and the clear skies show all the stars that the night sky has to of
about a fleeting ripple
This is a place to share what I have been writing or thinking about lately, which is mostly about fountain pens and books.