Smile.

She sits in her lavender posture reading a book opposite me on the brown textured sofa.She sits rigid, like discipline.Like the prescribed rules she's taught the world.Unbent .Unbroken. Glasses on her nose ridge , she looks old and beaten.Beaten by a stubborn reluctance to change.Beaten by routine.
She soon starts talking about everything ,I hardly listen.
Cant stop and listen to her world of tiny details and routine monologues.
I wander with the flute and santoor that are resonating hoarsely from my disturbed speakers.They are vainly competing with the mosquitoes buzzing in my scrunched ear.Sounds like Marlon Brando's great Godfather.Bass on high and mode on POP, and it starts sounding like music.
I wander in instrumental ecstasy,until the mossies attack again .I attempt to catch the damned mosquito with my front paws.This I realise is on par with trying to get snot off your fingernail,
because the bloomin' mosquito is quick for his age.Not that i tried ascertaining it before trying to put that loquacious soul to rest.So now I'm cursing these Mafia men.Soon they'll be a horde of his finest marksmen swarm upon me with drawn proboscis' -loaded with the safety off.

HArk! I hear a typewriter.Rat-ta-tack-chack-tat seems to flow with the tabla and flute.
A menage-a-trois of unconventional instruments .
She stops and listens.Never has the typewriter sounded less annoying .
We smile at each other.
The world needs more typewriters.