So I write in afternoons. It's nice to wake up in the morning and know that you don't have to do something because you have to. It's fun to forgive your past and listen to Dylan's To Ramona and see winter dying in front of my window. It's good to remember all the things and then not give a fuck. It's good to meet new people and forget yourself in them and then sleep in your bed alone. We wonder the what-ifs, but the what-ifs are swollen and lifeless. Words and more words, cam you write every single day with a hope that you're making sense, when you know there is no meaning in anything else. Yet it's beautiful as how I remember your eyes but now there are too many distractions and bitten fingertips.
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I went for Siddharth Dhanvany Shanghvi's The Lost Flamingos of Bombay and the reading was horrid, yet if you like your literature to be written, prepared and read out as soft-porn, that's up to you.

a) I lose my job.
b) A book I'm writing destroys me.
c) DU misplaces my provisional degree and it's my fault.
4) I don't have internet at home.
5) People are such idiots.