A writer is objectified by a reader who is  holding a book, while the rain cries outside in its unique insect voice. A writer performers the autopsy of a tangerine in order to make it likeable to the reader's taste buds.
A writer stir a mother's warm tears, petting it like a cat, searching for literary devices so that it can be equated with the silent foam of a vast sea. A reader presses his cheek on the the skin of a pillow, wrapping the symphony of darkness as though the morning will never come.
A writer, like a lover who kisses only when lights are off, holds the memories of unknown in his sloppy hands, only to wonder the fate of them.A reader, with memories belonging to a stranger, feels a knot in his throat while moving his eyes through pages.
What the writer and reader are actually doing is weaving straw hats, embroidering pillows and walking through a village road- not to do anything particular,  but to keep themselves busy. Because they are in the fringe of despair, in the verge of giving up. Two wells staring into the sky,  not courageous enough to ask the god "why".
All they are trying to do is to bring a spring inside an igloo. Trying to find peace by wearing noctural glory over their disdained fingers.Trying to crack the eggshell in a vague hope that life can be saved. Trying to make sense of the weight of sadness while floating in the world like a ballon.

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