Time is finite.

Dear Zonk,

Time is finite. And I’m afraid I’m spending too much of it on the wrong things.

I’m afraid there’ll be none left for when I get round to doing all the things that I really want to be doing.

Time is finite. And I’m worried that I’m screwing things up irreparably. Even as we speak.

Love always,
K.

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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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