The Sundays. No additional notes are added to the wary honking —overtaking the birds signaling— announcing itself at the grated-open window; earlier my cat dangled, there, clawing the metal mesh 29 storeys high unaware of confinements labeled as courage

The Horns. As the birds triturated my sleep, handing it to leftovers as the coveted sands once of dreams. 

The Birds. As wind alerting waking me, they are reminders of the electronic alarm whistling its way in my subconscious, deworming it of consciousness, bated for bartering my fragmented attention elsewhere but else-where but elsewhere. 

These Sundays.  A sounding elsewhere and atheistically nowhere the tole of commune. 

These Days. I find in it a fellowship with birds, horns and cats. A swirling of sound recipes as cacophonic covenants with hidden agents angled with coalesced invitations . Am I awoken mechanically bewitched?

This Sunday. A disconnected Sunday. It is burningly at stake.

—animasuri’22