This page needs a spring clean.

Whispers from the valleys carry that it is not yet the time of the eternal spring.

This page needs an eternal spring.


Like almost every one in the world’s billions, enchirist is an under one-hundred year old.

As the nights fall and the days break, food journeys, musings, and words enchanted, careless, and true assuage the restlessness of time.

Quotes she with from fictional Mr Keating:

… the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

She muses about food and other things. Mainly food. And today, yesterdays, and the yesteryears.

The portrait of tomorrow glistens, as the days of yore become the victuals of sweet evergreens, and the magnificent sands of open, barren beaches come into view.

She writes as if this were a narration. It isn’t; but it is. Her internal narrative is playing out as words on page.

In a distant universe, a sentience is returning a message. Resolute, it answers a silent inquisitor, again and again. She is unhearing. She must become aware.

Another draught from seemingly nowhere rattles the window.

She reaches for the jar of steamed cookies. A tangerine leaf swept up in the wind catches her eye. It is suspended, floating across her window, wanting of attention.

Ping! The message returns to its master. It is incomplete and imperfect. A piece of the indecipherable is missing.

She peers out, scanning the yard. The orange amongst a shroud of green from a minute ago her mind did not invent. It is in the safe hands of the fleeting wind.

Her gaze returns to the screen. The page is now less blank. Non-sequitur metaphors and reticent allusions sit unpacked.

The time is half-past eleven. The kettle is calling. The conversation is unfinished, the tale for another day.

’Til next,




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