It has been 2 days into camp and at every 1930 hours, I get brutally reminded of the magnificently pleasing dinner I had with Dad and Mom yesterday evening. We had Japanese glutinous rice — all was well except for the anxiety catalysed by the imminent book in. I am writing this, seated on moist mud, hands raped by sandflies as they leave their crimson mark of bestiality, surrounded by somewhat awfully annoying chirps and squawks of unidentifiable birds, the sneaky rustling of leaves caused by the scurrying of anonymous creatures.
Beside my shellscrape-to-be, there is an abominable ant-nest. Shafts of sunlight blind the nest, as if sadistically glorifying its abhorrent presence. All I implore is to have peaceful nights and uninterrupted rest.
The sunlight would soon away and a canvas of black would soon replace the light; trees in the night would begin to act like haunting phantoms donned in stygian shawls silently screaming terror.
(written on 07052016)