There is silence around. It is an all absorbing kind of silence, one that inhibits a person from hearing his own voice. It is a disconcerting prospect to live in a world where certainties transfigure into caprices every other day. It is disconcerting to sit alone in your room and learn through the placid eyes of wall lizard that solitude happens to be a better friend of his than yours. It is disconcerting when love makes its absence felt with a sadistic hint of vengeful but appropriate poetic justice. It is one of those days when thoughts and words dissemble and jiggle around in a concert of confusion. It is one of those days when a man who has all the reasons to be happy is overwhelmed by various apoplexies, in one form and another. He covets unconsciousness as the only possible universal remedy from the bleak and the musty.