Dear Zonk,
I’ve had about a quarter of something called Rowson’s whiskey in the past three days and I think my capacity is going back to less-ridiculous these days. I’ve made two drawings and one riff that might or might not lead to something more. I’m nowhere as productive as I used to be a year ago, but I think I’m doing okay.

And now I’m on a train, going home alone at almost midnight, and it’s okay.

Life isn’t half as bad as I make it out to be, most of the time :)

Love always,


Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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