There is a cold day outside, people wandering through the streets, bundled up in their long coats and thick scarves. It’s hot inside, the sun blazing through the windows, blinding, shining off of every surface. The noise of the market in the distance reaches through the windows; the chatter of the crowd, their dogs barking, the motors passing by. It’s quite inside, the only noise is the whir of the computer’s fan. The window is thin, only a single sheet of glass, dividing the
Sirens are blaring in the distance until it fades and disappears into the noise of the road. One of the neighbours is putting nails into the walls. Thump, thump, thump. A motor starts nearby, the doors of the car slam shut. It’s a dark, grey day, not so dark that the streetlights are on, but you will probably turn on some lights inside to write under. The streets are wet, even though it didn’t rain yet. Most of the trees have lost their golden leaves, twigs shivering in the w
Open your eyes. The room is drenched in pink. You blink once. Then twice. It is still there, a slightly golden pink, covering every surface. All of the furniture and objects that were once so familiar to you, now have this strange, happy hue. You get up to pull the curtains apart. The whole world is soaking up the sunrise, the golden leaves painted a wonderful red; the sky painted a shade of the brightest coral; the harsh dark brown of the bricks softened into an elegant, sof
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.