musing

When the echoes fade away to silence, the truth will emerge. Like a wet blotch of grease on paper, it will. It must.

The violence of passion must not die. It’s the only antidote to the rot of time, whose telling symptom is this softness of the mind.

Darkness, the agent of creation, moves all around me in gusts. And I used to have a great big hole right here in the middle of my self to keep it, channelise it. Where’s that hole now? The heart sleeps when there are stories to be written. Damn it.