When forms and colours make an impenetrable fog in the east, night is the only reality. My name is transfixed with good nights of my friends. Their fading footsteps unfold me in the abyss of midnight. My friend Sanhita strummed her guitar in the dinner. All the people cried "White Horse!" But the horseman evaporated in her satiated smile. When she departs her music turns into a glass-house in my garden; there the roots of cactus clutch all the familiar names.
At last when I brush all the names off and come out in the street for a leisurely walk, I find a barefoot silence stalking me and whistling like a street urchin.
Love it!!
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