“If art is the mirror of the society in which we live, how has modern man, together with his innate creativity, mirrored himself in a world twisted by a pandemic?”
If with this question I was referring to the Pandemic of the eighteenth century and I was a writer of the time, which is very unlikely, but in any case, would the answer change?
Man calls it river, makes it flow like gutter. The sky is polluted, the river matches the sky.
Friction is an important force of the creation. It is so helpful, yet it is always looked down upon as a negative component of life.
I used to carry them in my arms, take them in my lap when I was sitting outside. Unfortunately, most in my housing complex didn’t like those dogs. I could never understand why. They never caused any harm, were always friendly. It’s a problem with humans.
My mind had gone totally blank, like a baby drowning in a pond. Out of instinct, I ran towards her and snatched her out of the bed. She was limp, in a semiconscious state, murmuring something which I couldn’t understand. I had to carry her on my shoulders. The shadow let out a shriek which felt as if it pierced my ears. I was about to pass out from the pain but I didn’t. I knew I couldn’t not give up till I took her to safety.