Because all I ever wanted to do was mow lawns, cut grass and kiss the flowers goodnight

I have been dying to feel Tim Burtonesque since quite sometime now. The closest I've gotten to is wearing black.

Weeks end badly. Worse, I feel Kafkaesque.

I ran up the stairs today because that was the only exercise I could afford. I could’ve redefined the phrase ‘tired to the bone.’

A steaming hot water bath, boiling tomato soup, one black coffee, one cigarette and I am still cold. All of a sudden I realize it’s not the weather anymore. Its just me. I am just cold.

You just wait it out..says D..New Year’s around the corner. Things look pretty glum for a New Year. Adding to all that glumness is the queasy fact that I would be selling insurance policies for three fucking months all by myself. On the bright side, apart from inconsequential learning, I would also be working on a piece titled A Bird's Eye View of an Antisocialite. 

And perhaps it was time I realized that staying away from him would do me more good than harm.

Life just gets harder, and as it gets harder, harder it is to sustain madness, to sustain brilliance and anything even remotely beautiful

So I raise a really sober toast to great writing and great ideas.

Great writing doesn’t come from regularity and monotony. Great ideas aren’t thrown at you periodically. It’s a flash of a second that you fail to register. One great idea gone just like that, struck by lightening, cold dead feet kissing the wet ground.