Home.

Dear Zonk,

I don’t get to stay home alone much. Which is good, because I’m not good at staying alone. Specially at night, when every little sound seems ominous.
But I’m home alone tonight, for a while. And I’m lying here in bed with my headache and my camomile tea, watching sitcoms and talking to you, and I feel oddly at peace.

This is nice.

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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