A Breather in the Breezeway

Early mornings used to begin with the sound of newspapers rustling. Now, the digital pings remind us it’s time to pause—an allegory of life in compresses packets.

There’s an echo in this breezeway, a bridge between the cracked tiles beneath my feet and an open sky dominated by nuclear contrails. Time seems misplaced, both serene and perturbing.

Amidst this haze in the morning light, an old man seated on a wrought-iron bench reads nothing—just the patterns of absence that others crave in pages.