and Pablo Neruda.

Before I went to bed last night, I had conditioned myself to wake up at eleven today because today’s a Saturday. I wanted to make up for the lost hours of sleep this week. But breaking a habit is difficult, so at seven I was already making coffee and reading news online. From my table, I could hear the caged birds (they’re love birds, and so many of them) chirping from the nearby apartment.

I opened a box of Pepero and munched on these chocolate-covered pretzels. They’re my breakfast. It’s a drizzly morning. If it were a weekday, I’d be feeling down and bleak, but it’s the weekend, and except for taking my phone later to a service center in Ali Mall, my day is going to be free. No amount of drizzle will ruin it.

I’m spending two hours of my morning reading some poems. I want to do four today. Poems are a little tricky. They only manifest themselves after some painful extraction, but, if a poem is good, it’s worth all the bruises and cuts.

I think, this can be good life–a free morning, a cup of freshly-brewed coffee, a light breakfast, chirping birds, and Pablo Neruda.

pablo neruda

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