Her pen, to the table. Fast, sudden, pinching at paper. Her thought, broken, hurled from track by piercing blackbird offensive out window.
Clock now. 2.30pm. But it always says that. An empty discourse in a dead room. Herself, moving around shifting pages, quiet, stifled, headlong into the ream. It’s like wading through treacle. She is hungry. She was promised ice cream. And he has brought her treacle and locked the door. How the pen aches! Herself, the paper. Herself, the nib. And how the pen ashes! Everyone else gets a computer. Not her.
She seeks in a new way. He is not in her books, so she seeks in a new way. She finds a fresh knowledge and she bites it. She writes him. Then goes to the window.
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1 comment:
Wow, how punchy. Thoroughly enjoyed this - it's like poetry!
"Clock now. 2.30pm. But it always says that." That's my favourite line. I don't know what it is about it, but it really conveys a lot, in terms of mood.
Wonder what it all means.
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