sitting in front of my desk, i stare blankly at the translated text of The Arabian Nights next to an endless to-do list.
the blinds seem to have lowered by themselves. i always keep them up in the afternoons.
it’s the sky, like a sheet of chromatographic paper dipped in black paint. the black seeps through and layers of grey spreads till the paper is white no longer.
enclosed in an air-condition cubicle, i hear the winds whistle as they perforate the gaps beneath the windows, sweeping in the revitalising smell of petrichor.
the lazy hamsters adjusted their positions, still engrossed in their mid-afternoon trance.