There are texts you reread five times and still canβt untangle. This one was my favourite:
βBut my eyes are closing now. I am so sorry that I have to sleep. I canβt help it. I will use the time on the cow tomorrow and read through them and reply to what I can give reptiles to.β
On paper, itβs chaos. A closing-eyed apology. A mysterious cow commute. A promise to give reptiles something unspecified in the morning.
What he likely meant was simple: βIβm tired, Iβll catch up tomorrow.β But the misspellings turned it into accidental poetry. The kind you donβt want to correct, because the nonsense is better than the sense.
The image is too good to let go: him, sitting astride a cow, solemnly scrolling through messages as reptiles gather at his feet, waiting for their turn. Heβs weary, but he is faithful. Tomorrow, he will answer them all.
And thatβs the strange joy of language when it stumbles. Spellcheck fumbles, fatigue scrambles, and suddenly your inbox becomes a farmyard parable. Maybe the real message isnβt βIβll reply later,β but: βEven when Iβm half-asleep, Iβm still trying to show up.β
Though personally, Iβm still holding out hope for the cow.
