Time runs by so fast that sometimes I think this life is a sprint rather than a marathon.
I once conceived the idea of moving to Paris, Delhi, Rome, or some other big, hot city and there sit on a crowded boulevard offering poems for a dollar (or two) that purported to dive into the hearts of the people who would stop and enquire and pull out pearls of wisdom about them.
Just short stuff, in English, and only from what I saw on their faces and by the way they wear cloth upon their body – not any kind of mind-reading flim-flammery (I save that for myself).
But I would probably have to lie; for everyone loves sugared words. And that doesn’t sit easily with me.
So I stayed at home.