Monday, June 15, 2009

Little glimpses of hell in a masquerade. I have lost my way and do not know how to sail through. Masks never remain constant. They change faces. Just when you think you've grown used to a face and started holding on to it as if it were the only branch however weak and tiny, on that barren crag you are hanging changes its contours. People moult too. I don't know the ones around me. They have all moulted. Where do I run?

shob chhere palate ichhe korchhe. So tired.