A waning moon hangs early outside. Over the desk are pens with papers, magazines, mobile phone — all with collections of stories. Stories of things we know nothing and which know nothing of us. Of people who are distanced by words. Of facts that are composed of entirety.

And they haven’t stopped since, the endless confessions for life, for time and the spirit of it escaping from our very hands. They turn into forlorn paintings — of the world in which we invent characters rather than reveal ourselves. In which our bleak moments are bleaker than theirs.

Something scratches softly, then gets subsided slowly by the sedative quality of it. And I become achingly aware of this isolation.