Why is it that every single pen in the whole house is empty, I write two or three words and the words just disappear
We have a huge cloth pencil case bursting at the seams with pens I went through them all yesterday only a few worked, the ones that did where placed on my desk, on MY desk because with my memory I have too write little notes or I forget. Anyway today when I reach for a pen yet again I had too try five of them before I found one that worked by that time I'd almost forgotten what I was going too write down
Very nice pen it is too for once my writing looks neat, no I haven't forgotten how too actually scribe with pen on paper and I do spell better when I write that way it must be this dyslectic keyboard one problem the ink is a tiny bit light so I can only just read what I've written
Anyway here is what I wrote with my pen that worked
Love, what is love, a feather a fluffy cloud, an abstract feeling, soft too ephemeral too hold in your hand
love cannot be held, cannot be caged or held within four walls
can we love a car more than a person? Or is it just the unconditionally of the machine who doesn’t care what we look like in the morning that we love
The security of the steel, that cocoon that never talks back is that what we love
Always there for you never leaving only taking you too places where you want too go, totally under your control, never leading you somewhere where you don’t want too go
Can you love your car? Is it wrong too love a machine an inanimate object
I happen too love my car it's my safety place
Besides I happen too love driving too
This car of mine is my third car, my first an old Mk2 Cortina literally held together with wire coat hangers didn’t love me back but my dad loved working on it and he did all the time that was the car who’s gear stick fell off in my hand while I was driving into the driveway.
My second car my Renault 12 with it’s leather interior and fancy (for 1975) dashboard called too me, from a very small car lot in a part of Adelaide we didn’t normally go, I was meant too have that car, we weren’t meaning too stop there and the road we where on wasn’t one we normally went on but for some reason I just yelled out “stop” too my mother who was driving and there across the road in the tiniest car yard with only 4 or 5 other cars was this funny looking green car, I looked at the other Renault there, a station wagon cream colored, much more practical but I had too sit in the green one and as soon as I did I knew if I didn’t ask my mother for the extra $500 too buy it, it would probably follow us home anyway, it may have been green and it didn’t have a racing stripe or a number painted on it nor was it a Volkswagen but that car was Herbie, it loved me I loved it back I cried when we traded it in for the one I have now
The one I have now isn’t my funny green car but it is my safety place I do love it, not as much as the other one (shh don’t tell it that, it will have a flat battery on me or something) but I do love my grey grumpy car
For the 360 Writers
