In a room

Gold Flake Kings cigarettes, Dylan songs, office darn lemon tea, rickety autos, Raymond Chandler to Kurt Vonnegut to Samuel Beckett, beer drinking, obscure humour, love and those pair of eyes, late night sleeping, surreal dreams, witty unsaid quotes, random Delhi music shows, red embers of hate, English literature, sinking and blogging, the riffs of blues, flashes from The Master and Margarita, Sympathy for the Devil and Exile, castles of vanilla and clouds in the sky, card houses of hopes, visiting Kerouac, ghost of Orwell, Dickens gloom, poetically versed Cohen and Beautiful Losers, and I The Outsider, God and Nietzsche, those Enid Blyton childhood, now Elvis leaving the building, more brass tiles loosening on the wooden plank, hidden meanings in simple honesty, Howl howling, dream burning as a morning on a horizon, sad train journeys, sense of loss, suitcase but no travel, Barista coffees on hangovers, newspaper print, existentialism, the sheer fear of whores, selling souls, words, wisdom, wit, thirst of a river, lust of a green sea, rain and wind, songs, lies, thighs, mysteries, ironies and sadness, and burning with zippo, and this on and on.