elsewhere. But there are no stories one can fall asleep to.
The porticoes where we hid and sought are now a charred legacy. Our secret inscriptions have long dissolved and are now polishing stones on river-beds. Light rays and bandicoots enter and emerge unscathed from that heartless house.
Time refuses to budge. Some compromise. Some life.
1 comment:
strangely it takes me back to God of Small Things: the melancholy return..
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