It’s a different day. It feels different. Though the sun’s still piercing through the window, and crows are beginning to caw. But as I mentioned twice in three sentences, it feels different.
There’s a piece of thread or maybe a strand of hair hanging from the grill outside the window, and with it a piece of paper, interwoven as though a mini-kite.
Day 3 of writing for reason:
I don’t feel the urge to write this. But muscle memory won’t memorise itself. I understand how inaccurate that last sentence was and frankly I like the way it sounds. So it stays. When I say I don’t feel the urge to write this, it’s not out of anger or boredom. It’s not out of nihilism either. Thankfully.