Dearest Gentle Reader,
It appears society is as predictable as ever, for while a certain young woman, Sewwandi, has been missing for thirty days, her name is passed between the lips of gossipmongers. A 25-year-old vanishing in broad daylight, yet her worth has been neatly assigned a sum of Rs. 1.2 million.
Dear Lahiru Sampath, the man who once dealt in riddles and shadowed whispers, now finds himself in a place where silence is a requirement. After all, one must lie in the bed they have so carefully made. Yet, even in the midst of such intrigue, I cannot deny that my ever-growing collection of exquisite baby names has acquired a new gem; Daisy Forrest.
Ah, but let us not stray too far, for the real performance of the week belongs to none other than our former leader, a man whose tricks have been paraded so often that even the most devoted of jesters would surely tire. But credit must be given where it is due; our dear RW does know how to play the game. The question remains, however, whether the game itself is the problem.
And speaking of well-rehearsed lines, imagine my surprise when RW, in a moment of political theater, turned to the crowd and uttered those infamous words: “Where is the report?” Now, that is a fine question indeed, but tell me, since when did you start quoting my father? If we are to nominate heads next time, I daresay I would be most intrigued to partner with social media user @xfq on his rather compelling suggestion.
After all, grander things lie ahead, and the Sun, my dear readers, is at the center of them all. A most illuminating presence, if I do say so myself. And while entitlement is often frowned upon, I find that a touch of it, when warranted, is quite the indulgence.
Allow me a moment to tell you how people are positively flipping out over Benson’s Coachella tease. I am people. But, dear Ben, while we all eagerly anticipate your set, might I kindly suggest a comfortable attire this time? We are, after all, still healing from The Grammys.
So, I leave you with this: if you are among the rare and refined few still holding these words in ink and paper, then you, dear reader, have not yet surrendered to the artificial. You remain one of the last to understand the magic, the quiet romance of knowledge resting between your fingers, the crisp sound of a turning page, the lingering scent of ink in the morning air.
For all the digital contraptions of the modern world, none could ever replace the harmony of a book, a paper, and a well-brewed cup of chai.
The Writer
