usually, in sunday morning there would be a kettle shrieking to a boil, with visible smoke rising from a little hole on its side. today i was alone, making readable scratches on a piece of lined paper, consisting of lines unruled and asymmetrical circles that revolved around alphabets which was meant to steal the sight's spotlight. i kept on writing. i was not hungry. the room contained a perfect silence, a crackless, flawless aloneness that was so self-absorbent it was not aware of its own presence. my phone was blinking, but even that did not spur a discord between me and the room's grand stillness. it was ten thirty. i took my bike outside. i put on my headphones and turned down the volume so that the music was ostensibly loud without any obnoxious quality. i could still hear the breeze, or the screeches of my bicycle wheel that i mistook for another biker. the only thing absent from the frequency was people's conversation, but i had it in my mind anyway. i did two laps; one through a rather steep track and the other that took its time climbing on its course. the weather was nice. i took off my t-shirt and looked down at a film of sweat. i wanted to sleep but i could not. the room was now inhabited by noise.

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