Scribbling

Tom kept scribbling.

Good day, lords. In what way can I refine upon my adroitness in aural comprehension? It is genuinely arduous for me to fathom the parlance of the English, although my scribbling deftness is unerring.

Sami has been scribbling on the wall.

He kept scribbling.

"'Tom lives only an hour away,' that's what Mary said at school today. What does that mean, Mum?" Mum thought for a moment. "Well," she began, as she usually began her answers, "a distance can be expressed as a unit of time when you've established a constant rate of speed – it might be the average speed of a pedestrian, a bicycle or a car. But without knowing the context, the most natural choice would be the speed of light in vacuum, according to which–" Mum did the mental arithmetic, Johnny meanwhile scribbling everything down on a notepad, "Tom lives about a billion kilometres away, possibly on an asteroid somewhere near Saturn."

I saw Tom scribbling on the wall.

She's scribbling away again.

On the 26th of February of 2022, I tried to keep my day simple. Before dawn, at the corner convenience store, I drank a cold canned Thai tea drink and ate a pizza submarine sandwich. In the chilly, grey-sky morning, I headed to the cafe, whilst I practiced meditatively by scribbling Japanese Kana glyphs on my hand with a finger. I drank iced black tea at the cafe, whilst the typical early-morning clients were there, a Caucasian and an Oriental. A robust man in a black, red, and white jacket and dark-grey rugby pants entered to get coffee and exited, as he talked on his smartphone. Homebound, I took the long route across the vast green school field, seemingly an Animist-Buddhist experience of being on a different planet, the northern snowcapped bluish mountains being visible beyond.

Stop scribbling on the wall!