Mar 14, 2009


it's early morning and late at night. a convergence of what's left of the night's sighs and the day's youth.

to her right he sits, almost unmoving, except for a few flicks of the wrist, a few twitches of the eye, a deep breath. inconsequential movements.


the keys are tapped. the clock ticks.

tap tap tap. tic-tock. tic-tock. tap tap tap.

the sounds are unaccustomed with each other. even though they resonate almost at the same time, occupying the same sphere in which he and she are in.

seconds, minutes, hours, days, months and years had seen them by. along with someone else's birth, along with someone else's final act, along with a world-ful of stirred, hit, pulped consciousness.

and they remain still. him always her right. unflustered, unruffled. they hold, at a glance, a kind of tranquility which is almost always never put to words.

however the word serenity seems almost too disturbing to use.