Separation. Agreement. Two words that don’t belong next to each other. Two bifurcating lines that somehow fuse together further down the path. Really, there is something fundamentally oxymoronic about the phrase.
To be honest, I’m stuck on the agreement part.
Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch. That’s the order, right? It is for me, anyway, making “smell” the third sense. And not just a lowly third sense either, because something about this sense is transcendent – it has the power to link up with your sixth sense.
And if, like the lady above, you find something rotten in the air, chances are it’s indicative of an existential decay of some sort. Or, in some cases, it could just be a fart. Continue reading
One lonely robot. (c) Married to an Alcoholic
It’s 5am. In the past three hours, I’ve reached over three times trying to find her little toes. Because by this time, she’s padded over the landing and crept into my bed because she’s scared.
And each time I reach over, I remember she’s not here. Continue reading
Sunrise over Nairobi National Park (c) Married to an Alcoholic
An orange ember that catches and flares bright, then brighter across the sky. This is sunrise in Nairobi. You could video it without taking up too much data on your phone. It happens that fast. Continue reading
Saturday, early morning
Tyres outside boring
through rain damp street
Back. After months of anxious searching, raised hopes and panicked losses, I’m back. How many months has it been? Living under a superstitious spell that buttoned my lips and stilled my fingers? Continue reading
Break, break, break. Time accelerates then brakes against the shore of my leave. An office dalliance rises and winks away into nothing, like a fish leaping then plunging back into the ocean. Continue reading