No one is free, not even a wave, which leads a blissful life, spending the whole to cast a shadow of the eruption of life. Not even a sky, which covers this earth, but what all it bears, for being such a protection, it weeps whenever, its strings are stretched at its ends. And of course not me, who is ...

I have seen the the cobwebs, swinging in the sunbeams, deceiving my eyes, turning into small fishes, huddling in water. I have seen the sky, in moonless nights, divided into patches, showing the unseen, a desert neighboring a bog. Now, I believe my eyes, recognizing the process, a never ending one. God is busy with the brush.