Like thin smoke from the ash of 'my' cigarette disappearing into the Grey background in random directions, my mind wanders and puzzles itself in connecting sporadic emotions that I may say are inconclusive and unabiding in all forms; spare my recollection as they are few. Its hard to summarize, what? Everything I see. 437 pages of a novel, half filled bottle of water, my benevolent winter jacket, 3 cigarettes arranged triangularly, sun-bathed banana peels which appear like coloured geckos, spider webs silently decorating the interiors of my room. These are just a few. Our emotions are very random; atleast I believe so. Do we really profess to having a least bit of discomfort? They stimulate us to satisfy them. Thats a good job eh?
I think we should just explode. What can come out? blood mixed organs or noxious lies or informative secrets which were for so long buried under the hood of speculative stupidity. I'd rather open before everything closes. I follow where my foot takes me to.
I think we should just explode. What can come out? blood mixed organs or noxious lies or informative secrets which were for so long buried under the hood of speculative stupidity. I'd rather open before everything closes. I follow where my foot takes me to.
a sunny day, as bright as i could see
this rise, same as yesterday, all i am is free
the sound, of which i hear some
fast and rhythmic, where from they come?
the hustle and bustle, this and that folklore
canaries of the south, away from the sea shore
trickery by the eastern sorcerer
invasion by the western conqueror
a quick splat from the muted gongs
the priests sat and sang their songs
standing in unison we clap we frown
watching the emperor descend down
