delicate breakdown

cosmic corn flower

narrow houses

narrow houses in Amsterdam are supposed to be the outcome of a tax law which used calculated tax based on the width of the house

chatter.one

me : wot
an : what is wot ?
me : wot is what
an : is that a joke ?

unidentified flying mushrooms

yeah

it's pretty bad when you feel sad, and
have no one to tell it to

emi doodle do

jumping the puddle

on German-made wings
a bandanna and red beads
reddit at 120,000
piped lounge music

will I know

what it feels
to crunch snow underfoot ?

to ride in the night
on empty roads
and grudgingly arrive
to a warm snug home ?

to watch the beloved trees
bloom and blossom and then
shed their leaves in a twilight symphony
fading into the stark solo of winter ?

familiar faces, cherished places
friends made at the last moment
will I remember them still ?

for a sensible ending

begin with faith

the boomerang turns in flight

it's a bittersweet time - closing time , that is.
Semisonic has a song about it.
So many memories that run past my mind like little rivulets of gold. So many that I can't help but turn bitter that I can't hold them all in my mind.
And a fear that they will never amount to anything more than memories.
That one day the future, I'll look back on all those little memories and decide that they were just a figment of my imagination.
I'm alone for atleast ten cubicles in each direction, barring the small pocket of night-shift-ers five cubes to the south.
My bus will turn up in an hour and half, and it wont' wait for me.
In all this little limitations of time and space, my mind floats peacefully on the tangent realm where memories live.
I've forgotten a lot that has happened in the last year or so.
Packing involves scavenging, and disturbed artifacts return to the surface in the process.
And trigger of the little rivulets of happy sad little memories.
But I can't stay and talk about it how things have changed and I have changed and talk about the things that did the changing with relish and child-like doting. I got to run.
for it's closing time.
and Semisonic's got a song about it.

fat man fade

stop no more

go

the not-so-straight 'A's

.. and blue

my patch of green

seen on the net

free sheeping

time to head home

read

provoke

but of course

worse than being naive is being both naive and verbal

the way

to absolute reason winds past reasonable. Hence the mystic

decay

the odd guitar riff reaches up and seeps into my dozing mind
- a silver stream of memory flowing on the black marble of an empty past - pink floyd's 'Pigs' - it brings to mind empty tubelighted corridors with doors on one side and the silent night on the other, littered hostel grounds and stark deserted vastness dotted with sun-burnt shrubs and dust.
The past holds so much promise . But only in retrospect
The empty wine bottles stand by the sink. The jalapeno peppers have been taken over by a visiting fungus. The vessels in the sink laden with yesterday's soup have become fair-grounds for horde of teensy roaches which run around the roach traps with enviable ease. Dinner has ceased to be the piping hot and wholesome affair it used to be and has become a bony scarecrow-like substitute made out frozen and thawed bread and plastic curries.
So it is with the whole place. Alice's secret garden has been taken by scrooges in cold glasses and shabby hands creasing their ledgers and motley fools in gaily coloured wear, of the big white rabbit there's no sign. Nor of the Red Queen and her quirky lines.
Today's dal holds promise - pungent, evil, and smirking wicked. The blackened red-chillie lends it character. The green chillies I threw in to keep it company provide a tangy freshness which promises to keep you on your toes. The coriander, of course, makes the whole thing look green and resemble a forest. Hurray for sambar.
Sanity's middle name is sambar.
And Wodehouse. Lemme see if I can get my hands on one ....

paper plane

burst

rind

we're done, right, and have been so for a while, right ?
can we go back to being strangers again ?