I’m having intentionally absurd conversations. I worry about the squirrels darting across the road, oblivious to the scorching tarmac and zipping wheels. This joblessness is ugly. Doesn’t help, the grey-white tabby lolling in the sunshade with its tail hanging out. I lean against the railing, the hot steel scalding by back. I can feel a bead of perspiration slowly slipping down behind my ear. The humidity is saturating. Murder in may. It’s madness. A ford ikon stops by the pan walla five floors below me. It has a raised bum, like that of a black ant- I remember her saying.

Its downright vulgar. But I dreamt of this. Waited through the harrowing hours of exams for this. Whilst everyone scribbled reams about “problemetising” everything under the sun, I could only see Vikram Seth. Calvin and Hobbes. Darkened theatres. Streets of Sainikpuri. Arcade. Twilight. Mangoes and Almaltas. The promise of a sanctuary.

Where is it? I feel disconnected. Thoughts just trickle in, indecently slow. A fog. Everything is cloaked in it. A bubble that I know will burst, but refuses to.

I hate the lack of closures, knowing that there’s no “The End”.
I hate bad spellings, but I’m no good either.
I hate procrastination, yet I’m not new to it.
I hate this existence in limbo. Too late. 216 words late.