tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41842395150644082002024-03-08T09:23:09.714+05:30Digressive MonologuesSayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-89170693274541194792011-03-03T16:32:00.001+05:302011-03-03T16:34:45.768+05:30a new storychildren streaming in, joyful and joyless, bags tied to backs. taking their seats, quietly and noisily, waiting for authority to address their curiosity. one, two, three, four. the seconds pass, the minutes fly, the hours inflame their impatience. they are, of course, not sitting anymore. <div><br /></div><div>**</div><div><br /></div><div>the quiet turn raucous, the prudish turn reckless. pulling hair, breaking chairs, trampling on diaries. strange creatures litter the blackboard, paperballs litter the room. we-are-free, the collective chant goes. we-are-free-free-free. </div><div><br /></div><div>**</div><div><br /></div><div>five, six, seven. the first one to collapse is not fragile. a dungeon of paper swallows him as he tries to exhibit a flawed cartwheel for the seventy-seventh time. one by one, all fall. tiny bodies splayed across a ruined room, sweat still drying on their skin. </div><div><br /></div><div>**</div><div><br /></div><div>eight. the bell rings, loudly and obstinately, stirring them from their slumber. one by one, all rise. they pick up their bags and silently walk out in a perfect line. they are, of course, not going to pretend that their lives have been radically altered. </div><div><br /></div>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-75952085454587239982010-12-19T12:29:00.005+05:302010-12-19T12:52:23.687+05:30twirl-swirl<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">twirling, twirling. magic fingers, or so they say. displacing atoms and creating patterns. twirling.<br /><br />he stumbles out of the library, wielding ancient wisdom. a momentary glance and spin-spin-spin goes his mind-eyes-heart. she's twirling a stick, he's just watching.<br /></span></span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-52973748499798730412010-10-16T01:36:00.005+05:302010-10-16T01:42:31.632+05:30a new story.<span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">a gentle drop, a furious lashing; a soft, wild, tireless drizzle. the curtains sway, the lone window rattles. somebody steps on broken glass: a suppressed scream. it's bloody rainy, somebody says.</span></span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-87160123876183019492010-06-29T09:03:00.007+05:302010-06-29T11:15:43.013+05:30jerk<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">convinced that his life was boring, not being able to belong to a subculture, bickering with his grandmother, reading the same sentence a few million times before realizing he didn't want to read it, stuttering before his new crush and dropping the test-tube when she glanced at him, getting average marks and dreading justifying the same to his parents, going out to play football and being laughed at, taking out his new bicycle and being laughed at, trying to laugh along and wanting to cry, eating the same food every night, not being able to understand and reproduce the hep lingo, not wanting to wake up any morning, bullied in school, cheating once and getting caught, dreading justifying the same to his parents, lightly bumping his head into the mirror, screaming fucking screaming when his parents were out, picking up a rusted blade from somewhere and trembling head-to-toe and looking at the mirror and wanting to do the only thing that would save his life, screaming at his reflection, throwing the blade into the dustbin, banging his head into the mirror, screaming and banging and screaming, getting tired and sleeping off, waking up and overhearing his parents discuss about his incompetence at pretty much everything, dreading justifying the same. </span><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-35344333037016812722010-06-23T03:55:00.005+05:302010-06-23T16:14:19.164+05:30<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(230, 230, 230); line-height: 20px; font-size:13px;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">the bell was about to ring. we both disdained curfews. just then, and forever. i was looking into old-red brick, fading and burning under moonlight, walls and walls and walls, my fingers grazing her wrist. you , i said. she stood up and faced me. - the warden's calling my name, can you hear?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">**</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">the usual hustle-bustle and horn-blares and layers of sound dissolving into smog. there was a lump inside my throat. a wordless hour. a long walk. i dropped the last cigarette, half-finished. she turned around and faced me. - i will go now - okay. there is fury beneath her smile. she waits for a moment. - go.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">**</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">dirty-jeans and ash-smears. a conversation on anna karenina and the sexiest way to hold a cigarette. the first conversation. her accent is not american, but american-english. as the joke goes. daughter of a diplomat, multi-country hopper, imperfectly polylingual. she's pretty and i wonder what she is thinking. i stop discoursing on peasant-prototypes (who's bored?) and look at my cellphone-clock. eight fifteen. - it's been five hours - yes, um, listen, you want to go somewhere tomorrow? - i will be a little busy, not tomorrow, sometime later? - yeah, sure - and i have to go now - yeah, okay, and.. - i will bump into you soon enough - yeah, okay, and.. - see you, then - yeah, okay, and..i won't ask for your number. - what? - i won't ask for your number - ..and i won't ask for yours?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">**</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">sleep-deprived and sweaty, i open a cigarette-pack and ask her, you like science fiction? her beauty hits me sharply. she is my best friend's girlfriend. our knees are touching, my fingers brush her thighs as i turn towards her. she thinks it is accidental. what else can she think? not friendly, no. images swirl inside my head, possibilities bound by the promise of friendship. nothing is implicit. she roars, she sneers, she is alternately sarcastic and goofy. no, i think, not really.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">**</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">aisle seat, sure, but my legs seem to grow inside an airplane. i rise to let her pass, she mutters a thank you. the next two hours have to be passed anticipating a meaningful glance or a tangible gesture or a word, but since nothing will happen, i will soberly imagine a realistic hello-goodbye story, with zero improbable twists. the story begins from the second glance. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">**</span></span></div></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">sharpening the pencil and drawing the most preposterous face in the history (and geography) of child-art. adding a little hair and surrounding the half-dancing body with a name. smelling the paper and waiting for the real body (with face and hair) to emerge from the drawing. afterthought: adding a love-poem, with violets are blue serving as the penultimate line. hiding it inside a random notebook, along with a two-out-of-ten and red ink screaming poor performance. after a few minutes: taking out the piece of paper and kissing it embarrassedly and getting caught by mother and crying like a baby and feeling the injustice of the world and tearing the paper into two and crying still and throwing it into the dustbin and running away to recuperate. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">**</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">looking at the moon and smoking a joint and looking at the moon. looking down and feeling giddy. hand on shoulder. - this way. </span></span></div></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div></span></span></div><div><br /></div></span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-21009024909817765362010-06-03T17:56:00.003+05:302010-06-22T19:11:08.311+05:30<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">she noticed the dark patches under her eyes and thought God-one-more-day-to-survive. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">he noticed the dark patches under her eyes after having bland sex and thought Goddamn-it. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">she noticed how he had to put in effort to satisfy her and still couldn't. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">he noticed her dissatisfaction with him and consequent want of younger, healthier men. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">she noticed how it took him a few seconds extra to get off a chair. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">he noticed the same. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">they separated. they gave up what <i>defined </i>the past, because the future does not get any better because of that. obviously the solution to pain is not gain. </span></div>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-34560989745682982102010-03-21T20:33:00.005+05:302010-03-21T20:49:19.246+05:30A New Story<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">A, four years old, five years old, six, seven, eight, nine...nineteen. B looks at A. B says: Oh damn I didn't notice you were growing up. A looks at B. A says: Fuck you B, you have been growing up too, you are..</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">B, five years old, six, seven...seventy. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">..seventy and you don't even know it. B looks at the mirror. B says: Oh damn I didn't notice now I will wither and die since I'm conscious of my age and doubly conscious of the mortality of man. A looks at the mirror and says: Shut up B, I will take care of you and I will love you and all will seem timeless and beautiful, just wait and feel, but you won't be deluding yourself anymore. B looks at A and says: Oh fuck you A. A grimaces and frowns and cries and smiles. B cannot react otherwise. The mirror is the space between A and B. </span></div>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-86956878906852100372010-02-20T22:46:00.005+05:302010-02-20T23:42:22.191+05:30A New Story<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She stared at me and I said Hello. I said Hello and she said Go away never come back please stop pestering me. Everyone is looking at us can we go to your room and talk? Go away please please. Just a few minutes just one conversation we still don't know what we want. Please go away. I took her hand and pulled it hard and she stumbled forward and did not resist when I put my lips to her lips. A lifetime of distance and ignorance will not lessen this moment in my memory your memory the memory of the people who are looking at us. It is over go away now? I will stay. You pestering idiot. I pestering idiot. You absolute ass. I absolute ass. Don't play with me. You are playing with me. Shut up. Only if you don't tell me to go away again. You little little what are you doing with me? I am staying with you. I don't love you. So you concede? Stay you idiot. Thank you and you didn't return my greeting remember? What? Hello. Okay hello for the heck of all those who are still looking at us. Let's eat something I feel hungry. Okay. Hello hello hello I feel like pestering you so much. I told you to shut up. Hello hello hello</span></span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-68721773934573072582010-02-20T12:46:00.009+05:302010-02-20T21:25:14.902+05:30A New Story<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fingers curled gently touching palm bottom thumb placed over forefinger: a skin telescope. Pretend pretend. Left eye closed and the right eye hurtling through infinite space the right eye slowing down and brushing against bird wing. Right eye riding bird back gliding towards mountaintop in search of nothing. Off back now spiralling through blue white air here there here there. Losing focus focus back the eye moves downwards into pits of history the core of the core of the core of the core. Nothing to see. Up again and down again and nothing to see anymore. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div></div>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-62424593034578888312010-02-18T22:59:00.007+05:302010-02-20T20:04:03.079+05:30A New Story<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Say, there is a character with a silly name, almost graspable hair, yellow fingernails, bruised knees, wearing a blue T-shirt with nothing written on it, and say, this character is a forty year old college professor. Say, we encounter him on a Sunday evening, under a blue moon, sitting in a park, blankly staring into a patch of grass and writing a suicide note inside his head. Here's the interesting bit: This is the first time he is writing one inside his head, the previous ones have been paper-recycled. It is 9-o-clock. Ticktockticktock. A lady in a blue dress enters the park, slightly drunk, humming a song. We don't see her face, however, but we get the feeling something exciting is going to happen. The lady clumsily navigates through the grassy terrain and reaches the bench on which the professor is sitting, and after what seems like a deliberate pause, collapses to the ground. </span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Her head falls onto the professor's lap and the professor instinctively holds it, his right hand cupping the middle of her face and his left hand clutching her long dense hair. He gently puts her head on the grass and lies down next to her.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> They are looking at the blue moon now and smiling. Say, we leave them there.</span></span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-49877918199569325762010-02-05T00:24:00.002+05:302010-02-05T00:25:25.401+05:30Note To SelfPoetry, pah! You pretentious ploop! Get a life. <br /><br />Not.Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-66826461632441893442009-12-08T05:02:00.002+05:302009-12-08T05:04:23.613+05:30Other<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Following trails, reaching </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">hearts shivering with </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">animosity </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">To touch would </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">be pure </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Violence </span></div>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-44577735138382638842009-11-23T21:09:00.010+05:302009-12-03T22:57:08.120+05:30Tautology (A New Story)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">R loved playing with scissors. His mother called him a BadBoy, perhaps owing to her sparse vocabulary, and his best friends were half-scared of the fact, however they might want to deny it. R was never violently playful or playfully violent, he did not damage any property, human or animal or inanimate. R loved moving the tip of his fingers across the surface of the blade and occasionally pressed the tip of the blade, usually with his right forefinger, always knowing where to stop. Tingle prick. It was pleasure, happiness, a perfect experience, a perfect state-of-being. Sometimes he held scissors vertically over his face, the handle-holes replacing his eyes, the middle of the scissor his nose, the space between the blades the space between his lips. Then the scissor talked, senseless jabber, or bits-of-wisdom, or nothing-at-all, but as R would think and say and feel, it was beautiful. Otherwise R wasn't particularly dreamy or distracted, as other so-called creative kids were supposed to be (are all kids creative and do all kids believe/live in la-la-land and neverneverwhatever?); he was quite pragmatic, straightforward, and constantly alert of the so-called real world around him. R was not precocious (after all he couldn't solve 356X345 without pencil-and-paper) and his memory was not abnormally high, but R seemed more mature than his peers, maybe because he was methodical, precise, and not absurdly imaginative. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">So, as we see, R was a great man in the making, a rich man, a normal man. But why did he play with scissors? It was because, and this is the only answer to this (/that) question, it was because R loved playing with scissors. </span></div>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-38480107493179124262009-11-18T20:41:00.004+05:302009-11-18T22:18:48.755+05:30A New Story<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Nothing could stop her, or so she thought. She ran up the stairs, she ran down the stairs, she ran up the stairs, she panted. Oh nothing can stop me, she thought, nothing nothing nothing at all. She ran down the stairs, she ran up the stairs, she ran down the stairs, she collapsed. She thought, nothing can stop me nothing nothing noth </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">ing, nothing nothing can stop me. She got up. She ran up the stairs, she ran down the stairs, she jumped. </span></div>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-26555078315618882862009-11-16T23:28:00.007+05:302010-05-01T01:22:04.533+05:30A New Story<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">1</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Rosie was a little girl with a headache. She went to school, she had icecream with her friends, real and imaginary, but she always had a headache. It can't be said she was born with one, because people are born with a head, not a headache. But then again, Rosie was a special girl: she could balance deflated footballs on her forehead and plastic dustbins on her fingers. Rosie liked to walk on dry leaves and talk to her own shadow.<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">2</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">John was a shy little boy, who hated his name and his shyness. He went to school, he had icecream with his friends, real and imaginary, but all of his friends were imaginary, or maybe he could not distinguish between the real and imaginary. His teachers, especially the gentler ones, pitied him, without knowing why. John did not lisp or stutter, however, and he liked making geometric shapes with matchsticks. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">3 </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">One day, there was a bomb blast near the school, and everyone was afraid. Parents were calling up teachers, teachers were calling up news reporters, news reporters were calling up politicians, and overall, it was nothing short of pandemonium. What parents and teachers and news reporters did not realize, not immediately at least, was that both Rosie and John had not come to school that day. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">4 </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Rosie and John had never talked to each other, although they used to live close to each other, and walk through the same half-grassy route, which some people called a shortcut. On the day of the bomb blast, fifteen minutes before it happened, John and Rosie stopped at the same icecream man and ordered the same icecream. At the same time. Both of them looked at each other, the van separating their bodies but not their eyes, and both of them recognized each other. Rosie and John studied in the same class, and Rosie was secretly jealous of John's new four-doored blue pencil box. For the first time, John found a word slipping up his stomach and wriggling out of his throat, and before he could feel shy, he said Hello, distinctly and wonderfully. Rosie said Hello, came over to John's side, enveloped his closed fist with her palm, and said, Let's swap icecreams. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">5</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The bomb blast happened near the ice-cream man, so near, that the ice-cream man burst into pieces and his right eyeball could never be found. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">6</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">John had never talked to a girl of his age before, and strangely, he did not feel shy with Rosie, and said Yes to her demand, without even thinking. After swapping icecreams and finishing the last bit of it, Rosie and John started walking to school. Rosie said, Is your mother an ice-cream maker? John said, No, but she buys ice-cream for me when father refuses to take me to the movies or shouts at me. Rosie said, Now it's your turn, ask me a question. John could feel the tips of his fingers burn and his stomach turn and his throat dry, but he asked, Is yoah madr lev? Rosie suddenly stopped, looked at John, surprised and pitying, and asked, How did you know my mother is not alive? John gulped two spit-gobs, and said, I don't I no I don't know okay. Rosie laughed, laughed wildly and loudly, laughed so hard that she had to sit down on the half-grass and laugh, and then she stopped laughing, and gestured to John to sit next to her. John obeyed her. She said, You know, my father is a good man, he buys me icecream. John nodded. And then Rosie put her arm around John's shoulders, and said, Why don't you talk to anyone, I want to talk to you, I will be your friend. John was almost shivering, but then he recovered quickly, and said, Okay I will be your friend too. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">7</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">In the evening, the school was empty, and people were starting to forget about the bomb blast and get on with their lives. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">8 </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Rosie said, Take out a piece of paper and write my name on it. John asked, Why? Rosie said, Just take it out and write my name and then I will write your name on it and we will hide it under a stone. John didn't ask Why this time and did what Rosie told him to do, and after they had finished writing and hiding the piece of paper, they got up and started walking to school. Rosie let out a sigh and almost said something, but something stopped her, and she sighed again. John, getting braver by the moment, abruptly, clumsily held Rosie's hand, and almost said something, but did not, and smiled, not looking at Rosie. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">9 </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">There was a blast. Two children were injured. Two children died. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">10</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">A piece of paper below a stone, with two names written on it, is a beautiful thing and an eternal thing, and in the future, a lot of things might happen, and everything will be forgotten eventually, but the piece of paper shall remain, with two names written on it, John and Rosie. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">11</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">A piece of paper below a stone is a secret, like the birth of friendship is a secret. </span></div>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-64307859282217895712009-11-08T00:21:00.000+05:302009-11-08T00:22:02.608+05:30A New Story<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">There she was, listening to me or not listening to me, but looking out of the window and I wanted to touch the back of her neck ever-so-lightly and let go. She turned around, telling me something with her eyes, then before she could turn back again, the littlest of smiles radiated the space between us, around us, everywhere, and it was Love. </span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-61801172149394167712009-08-20T01:53:00.002+05:302009-09-05T21:39:54.536+05:30New Blog!<a href="http://sayanchaudhuri.blogspot.com/">http://sayanchaudhuri.blogspot.com/</a> <div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-38059953842697202602009-05-24T15:38:00.005+05:302009-05-24T23:25:29.195+05:30<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Together, tightly wrapped, tense. In place, secure. The death of movement. The beginning of vision. Our bodies floating beyond us, catharsis of spirit. Thinking this is the perfect moment to speak, to say a word, a word eternal and limitless, but we know. But we touch with silence and know. This is it. The end of play. Understanding. <br /></span></div><div></div><div><br /></div>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-71294413830727694702009-04-20T23:56:00.007+05:302009-04-21T06:02:14.956+05:30<span style="font-family: times new roman;">Walking alone, watching my shadow merge with a greater darkness pervading the empty streets of my neighbourhood, occasionally prodding the rotting skeletons of fruits and dogs with my desensitized boot, vaguely conscious of a song trickling out from some old, hard-to-locate, almost crumbling house, feeling my lips curve outwards, in half-remembrance of a past more romantic. So this is it, alternate spurts of disdain and sympathy, growing into a greater helplessness, the vestige of life exposing the void within. What am I, but a shadow within a shadow, a dot within an immeasurable ever-expanding chain, ambitiously and helplessly plotting my own freedom, devising my own unique identity, imagining an immortality all too mortal. So this is it. A shrug, a sigh and move on.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">- Drugs? The great escape.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">- Have played with it, but hey, I think sleep is better.</span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-1498125949208032922009-04-10T02:31:00.001+05:302009-04-10T02:31:51.575+05:30On Touching Space<span style="font-family: times new roman;">Reaching out, so that distance </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> shrinks to a single point </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> of epiphany, our almost-</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> faded love is reborn :</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Draped in stardust and rose, </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> A longing no more. </span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-18014849237816361492009-03-21T23:06:00.009+05:302009-03-22T14:55:19.509+05:30Hunger<span style="font-family:times new roman;">This hunger, almost gentle,</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">lyrical and mildly intoxicating,</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">filling my senses in its</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">attempt to swallow</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">a greater fulfillment;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">This hunger, festering inside</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">some deep cavern, never</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">exposed to the sun</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">of time, hidden as</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">darkness, absorbed</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">in its own destiny;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">This hunger, pushing</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">images to the heart</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">that almost seem</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">crazy, rude and too</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">self-important to</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">be taken seriously-</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Making life more real,</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">this hunger, with its</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">sparks and booms, perhaps</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">searching for a greater</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">life, a greater desire, what</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">less self-important and</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">more musical people</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">would call the consuming<br />quest for thirst.<br /></span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-58872197847591030112009-03-13T23:49:00.003+05:302009-03-13T23:55:10.006+05:30A New Story<span style="font-family: times new roman;">Softly she taps my shoulder and stands behind me, obstinate. I turn around without apologies, disdain or sympathy, and on seeing her red-nosed sadness-disguised-as-anger, I start giggling like a girl. She laughs, as if it was an infection, and for those few triumphant moments, both of us forget the crazy “I don’t need you” un-promises and ego-challenges that brought us to our knees, rolling in the dust, laughing. Exhausted, we find warmth in the once-sad coldness of our palms, look into the sky, and sigh.</span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-64008514536339795642009-01-04T02:12:00.009+05:302009-04-10T13:23:48.275+05:30A New Story<p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Full moon. Warm and milky. Wheels crunching on gravel, doors opening and closing. Shadows from the flowerbed to the stairs. Cold and hazy. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- Well I'll be off then. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- Stay a while. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">A telephone rings from somewhere within the house, a ringing that seems to have it's own time and space, it's own sense of lethargy, a ringing that seems aged and musty, felt and understood only after it stops, like an echo trapped within silence. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- You should go in and rest. And he's probably calling. He might get tensed. I mean, in your condition..</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- Kiss me. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- No. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- Kiss me. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- Don't do this. I don't deserve this. You don't deserve this. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">A teardrop glistens, the moon </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">inside it. I was calling you a long time back, pushing startled shoppers with my heavy, strong hands, running and slipping and recovering on the carefully scrubbed floor, shouting your name, consciously enjoying the fact that every eye was on me, and following mine, every eye was on you. I couldnt suppress the laugh that came from nowhere I was aware of and could control, some never-to-grow-up part of my heart, and watching your face turn a comical shade of red as I came nearer and nearer only helped it grow. I laughed and laughed and fell on my knees and catching my breath, amidst dozens of baffled, amused, curious people, said I wanted to marry you. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- It's a strange world, isn't it? I still call you my bestfriend. I still call you my bestfriend and my husband buys it. He didn't even feel jealous for a moment. He thinks jealousy is a scar. He thinks jealousy is against his rules of integrity. He will not allow himself to feel jealous or angry or whatever that spoils his ideal of perfect love. I don't understand. I wanted to torment him, I wanted to make him beg for my love, for whatever he wanted. Why couldn't I make him need me? I've been there and he's been there and we've been together but why couldn't I fucking make him need me? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- </span></span></span><st1:place></st1:place><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Don't cry like that. Don't cry like that..</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Words become needless entitities sometimes, not because gestures and unsayable emotions replace the necessity, but to make way for a greater want, the desire to hold close and smell every word that has been said before, every word that has led to the moment of realization. She gestured outside, and I followed her, not saying a word and feeling a million soft pinpricks on my forearm, till we hit sunshine and she stood on her toes and kissed me. Kissed me to tell me that all past and future had merged to a present, a wholesome, complete present where all expectations and plans were laid to rest, and all we had was us. Raw, stinking in bits, and happy.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Ten years can seem like a lifetime, but it's always that one moment, the intitial spark and clang and blow and fire that every day holds on to, every day building itself holding a mirror to that first upheaval, the grandest and scariest and fiercest of all. I imagined that she cried beyond exhaustion to satisfy my sense of justice when I left without a word, when her father refused to hear my well-constructed arguments, my insistent promises to keep her happy and prove myself and work harder. It all seems so stupid and adolescent now when I think of it, being a grown-up, practical man with the knowledge of the future in numbers and figures, not something as vague and misleading as words. I rationalize my present by thinking that I tried to toy with presets, I put my heart into changing what was always, and almost pitilessly, not in favour of change. I invested too many emotions into a present that never was, I thought, and I became a practical man, day by day, sleeping dreamless. But it all seems so wrong and meaningless now, her tears falling without a whit of self-restraint, asking me to kiss her. I leaned forward and put my lips against her warm forehead and let it remain there for a moment. Without thinking at all, I fell on my knees, and put my lips on her bulging, animated belly. Past the slightly stretched black cotton T-shirt, past the soft coverings that protect the life inside from the imperfection and the dust, from the absurd injustice destroying and ironically reinventing lives and consciences and priorities, I kissed it. Raw, pure and complete. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- You should go now. My car's getting lonely. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- Come back sometime. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">- I'll try.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-1667143472080191482008-12-31T00:51:00.003+05:302008-12-31T00:58:20.500+05:30Bitter Night<span style="font-family: times new roman;">Unwrap the silence and perish. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Your lips smooth</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">and lonely, piercing</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">with every word</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">unsaid. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Take into account</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">my sadness, my</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">withdrawn attempts to</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">salvage phantoms</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">of promise. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Scream.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">I want to feel words</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">hurtled across my heart, </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">moments cold</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">like needles, the novelty</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">of your body now </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">a burden.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Scream, for I have </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">forgotten how to</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">speak. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">I cannot leave</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">till you hate me, words</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">like scissors cutting </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">illusions that might </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">gleam. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Your lips smooth</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> and lonely, piercing</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> with every word</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> unsaid. </span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4184239515064408200.post-9850725244194197442008-12-25T17:54:00.005+05:302008-12-25T18:03:01.063+05:30Book In Hand, Late<span style="font-family: times new roman;">There are lights beyond, I dream.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Someone faintly ascends</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">wooden steps, creaking like old</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">age, and steals the amber drizzling</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">across half-open books, ageless. </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Hey, come back, the words </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">softly crackle on my tongue. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Sleep, a word slips gently</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">into sleep, where the lights </span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">flow once more, like a river. </span>Sayanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04196649683440366855noreply@blogger.com2