Today, I settled by the verge of the bed, searching for a resolution or any new substance to the poems that had been scribbled on dry fresh-wipes, and stored in a box with a roll of sheets containing old handwritings of literature tucked beside, held in the clutch of a friendship band that colorfully wriggles. Now that I read it, it hardly qualifies as literature and I read it now with downier eyes, eyelids drowsy in a young haze. The footloose howls of experience, heading a closing verve alongside the dark margins that are festooned by new recognitions, and regrets, and wistful thinking that perfects a deception of marveling traits, and sparks a chain of events and sequences, which are reminiscent of hill rides, and souvenir gift shops. ‘Whoosh’ goes a sheet out of a hand slippery with spilt milkshakes, and the sole of the shoe on which it falls…
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