There isn't much to say. Or maybe, there's a lot. Squeezed into chinks and corners. But I no more fancy broken, bloodied nails. Just because they have scrapes of soundless, dank nights on them.
When the rest of standard five was still infatuated with little orange erasers that smelled of rainy mornings in the middle of April, I was discovering how unforgiving, how perfectly angry the ink rubber was. And how it scourged blue-black words into little paper flakes that lolled listlessly around the silky remains of the page...
Some day, I'll come scurrying for words again. Till then, I'll be greedy, restless and wide awake.