of the cities falling into ruins, enough picturing the last human standing of all of us ever, as the universe of man dies in the dot of his eye, or hers, enough of finitetude and failure, enough seeking of the skeleton beneath the sight of the skin, or looking for the essence of a lover in lost hairs, lazing about on pillows in the daze of morning afters, enough seeing time as many false roads with only end: I am bored of it. Bored of blogging and the whole damn hearing of it. Bored, bored, bored.

- so say the Ears. They would rather hear the melody of an ice-cream van, the giggles and babble of the children outside, buying lollypops, dressed in superhero costumes, and so endlessly innocent that a blogger cannot capture it.