“His solitude was the one thing he valued most,” the story read. A weird story it was indeed. A story of a writer; about the writer’s writing. Like Kafka this writer “need[ed] solitude for [his] writing; not ‘like a hermit’ – that wouldn’t be enough – but like a dead man.” Like Kundera the writer …
Days. Although all have the same length of time, they differ. And I am not talking of the weather or anything that insignificant, but experiences they hold. But ours is a depressingly arid life, its monotonous nature is such that it drives us to appreciating insignificant differences in the days of our lives such as …