It has been an entire three years. Three years of ceaseless sorrow, soft piano and Christmas turkeys, always slightly parched. But I indeed will confess that the nakedness of my life has begun to reach new horizons. The script of Brianna Swati has already been written. But there are too many eras and fumbled words, so all that is left is my defeated body. Motionless and cold.

My hair lingers sweet coconut and stale water into the chilled basement. I write with nothing in mind. A plot. There is none. Hopefully the story of my life has one. A good one. A wondrous one. The one I dream about each night. Fascinating really.

Have to wash crusty noodles out of a pan. Till I return. Ta.