...greet the brand new day

The clouds will be a daisy chain
So let me see you smile again
Dear Prudence won't you let me see you smile?

~the Beatles

Back...

Staying closer to an object is sometimes fun sometimes not. You can spend sleepless nights gaping, fiddling, and cuddling with the desired object. Leaving apart is always a menace and chiefly if it is from only your side.

Mr. X was missing his 600M so badly that he cried to the moon. But finally it is back after such a strange long hiatus. They are now home, having dinner together and laughing without causes.

But what happened to the perfectly unkept hopes?

Suffering of Destruction

Be a good boy
Try a little harder
And make me proud.

Shattered states sometimes give you stateless motions. The least I can do is keep quite and enjoy the status. I don’t count the countless pieces of broken dreams, because it might block the sunrays into your world. Similarly I don’t keep account of the cradle of lost kites; tomorrow they might take the shape of clouds and rain perpetually.

Yeah, I am always high, but grounded.

Go

Move on is a fascinating fuzzy phrase. Where to move on? How? This evening I came out of the woods to see a sulking sun. The streetlights follow a stringent rule to glow on, one by one. Brightness speaks about you, speaks about me. Clarity stores different story for today and tomorrow. Where is the lucidity to light on the never land? How to wipe off the clouds to sail in the changing place?

Crossroads seem to come and go.
The gypsy flies from coast to coast…

Nothing...

Nothing is to ponder as such. Nothing is to split or multiply anymore. Nothing is to add to the immense nothing. Nothing is to lend or sponge or plead or steal. Nothing is to approach anymore. No craving for the wish-river. It was the perpetuity once, now a simple blot on the wall calendar which is to be ruined this midnight.

He is fashioning the plaster right now. A fragile egg shell mind was crowded. Few of the mass left with one hand in the pocket, few silently stride, and of course days and dreams are never congregate.

Sooner he will post a "do not disturb" board exterior to the beehive. A guitar seventh chord is in progress and he might choke one day or tonight.

The epitaph says it was not love; only fond of.

yet, breathing

He woke up abruptly in the dawn and smelled something branded. Vaguely he started investigating the spring. The aroma was faint but so strong he could not continue his slumber anymore. He ransacked his brain, raped his soul, and tried all mumbo-jumbo and all black magic. He took a voyage to trek all five horizons. He gazed below the carpet and delved into the ground as much as he can for the whiff. Dizzy he was, considered to dial 911 or call up Mr. Koifi Annan. Sadly, those lines are not for private usage.

Insensible till the core, he gawked to the sky, to find out the haunting yet familiar scent.
He stood motionless on the rail line, trying to confirm if the end of the lines meets somewhere. Earnestly eager to move on, to explore the place where changes take place.

The perfume was of her breath.
Is he still breathing or died a little prince?