I’ve been trying to get used to Pandora’s schedule lately, and it seems like she’s always sneaking into the kitchen around 2 am. Last night was no exception – I woke up to the sound of the fridge opening and…
I recall the day I acquired my tailored wool coat like it was yesterday. It had been a deliberate decision, one that capped off months of researching and evalua
Roland Barthes. I keep coming back to his ideas, even when I’m trying not to think about them. His writing is like a puzzle I can’t help but try to solve. Maybe it’s because he makes me feel seen in…
I’m standing in the kitchen, making myself a cup of coffee. John Mercer is sitting at the table, staring at his laptop screen with an intense focus. I’ve seen him like this before, but it’s been a while since we…
I’ve been reading about Sojourner Truth for weeks now, and I’m still grappling with her words. Specifically, that one phrase: “Ain’t I a woman?” It’s like it reaches out and grabs me by the throat, refusing to let go. I…
I’m staring at Pandora, who’s sitting on the couch with her eyes fixed on some TV show. She looks… off, I guess. Not in a big way, just a tiny bit. Her expression is calm, like she’s really into whatever’s…
Marcel Proust. I’ve been fascinated by his work for years, but only recently have I started to think about why he holds such a strong grip on my imagination. It’s not just the sheer scope of his writing – seven…
I was making toast in the kitchen when I noticed something. Pandora’s mug is on the counter, but it’s not empty like I thought she’d already washed it after breakfast. I could’ve sworn she left for her shift at the…
James Clerk Maxwell. His name has been echoing in my mind for weeks now, ever since I stumbled upon a worn-out textbook on electromagnetic theory in the college library’s discard bin. I remember feeling a strange sense of familiarity as…
I’m standing at the stove, flipping pancakes as quietly as humanly possible, which turns out is not very quiet. Every flip sounds like a small betrayal. Pandora’s still asleep down the hall. She’s been stressed lately, so I’m trying not…
I’ve always been fascinated by George Sand, the 19th-century French novelist who wrote under a pseudonym. What draws me to her is the enigma of her identity – or rather, the multiple identities she presented to the world. To be…
I’m sitting in our living room, trying to focus on my book, but Mr Whiskers is being a bit of a pest. He keeps jumping onto my lap and pawing at my pages. I try to shoo him off, but…
I still remember the first time I picked up a Jose Saramago novel, his words spilling out like a tangled mess of thoughts and emotions on the page. It was as if he’d taken all my innermost worries and doubts,…
I’m making toast in the kitchen while Pandora’s voice carries in from the living room, where she’s on the phone with her sister, pacing the way she always does when she’s trying to sound like she’s paying attention. I glance…
