Solemnly he moved across the floor and back to the sofa where he lay on his side looking out the window. There was hair everywhere in the cracks and crevices, dog hair. He imagined the hair adhering to him when he stood, brushing it off. It would just collect in the cracks and on him again. He imagined himself as any one of the elderly men in his family moving in the same predictable pattern from room to room. What it would look like from a satellite looking down, small elliptical patterns. Life in captivity. Himself a composite of all men who came before, his race.
He got up to stir the soup and lay back down again. Days measured into chunks, smaller bits in between. Fumbling the glass separating him from this exhibit he’d waited a long time to see, this rare life.
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Categories: microblogging, writing
Bill Pearse 
Nice to read a commonplace routine picturised attractively. He would love to be made aware that his mundane core of aging days are recorded in history. Lucky him.
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True that as we say in the States, Keshav! Thanks for reading, happy you enjoyed it.
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Another third person exploration. Good to experiment. Been thinking about trying some non-I too. ‘Course, better to write than to think about writing.
Talk soon mate.
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Yes talk soon! Looking forward to it.
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