My dad, all through his adolescent years in the 1950s believed that if he ran far enough towards the horizon, he could probably find the sky dipping and would be able to poke at the clouds with a stick.

My little foster puppy chews away toilet paper, ten rupee notes with teething joy and without a care in the world.
I live in my self created part dreamy part existential soft cloud ball of inaction.

while far away in Congo, the rebel army continues to send little children to the war front with whistles in their palms to distract and trick the enemy gunmen into killing them instead.

1 comment:

little boxes said...

heart wrenching and heartfelt.