.Dots.

Dear Prudence,

Today, while easing into this mesh-nylon chair, staring indefinitely into a monitor and playing first fiddle to servitude, a faraway murmur of thunder cruises through the varied rough-edged sounds into these ears taking me back to the years of seasonal-lapses and etcetera.

I came across a torn trouser and tattered tune lying unabashedly on the floor wanting to be chided upon. They remind me that the days of the deity are nearing the corner. Memoirs of the bigoted bus and its constant refusal to speed up; the sudden rains mixed in perspiration; the yellow mellow taxis and a shared table.

The delightful daisies, struggling against the weed of inept lands near my house spoke up. The rotten cockroaches have outdone Mr. Samsa. There is no doubt over the fact. This is an incorrigible loop and just like my broken music-player, they will come chasing me every-time Samson takes up his saxophone in refute. Then again, every Samson dies of starvation; in search of salvation.

The hoard is clearing up. The bags are being packed, the screens shut down.

I think I will stick around for a couple of hours pondering on how to kill a dragonfly. Talking of dragonflies, I suddenly feel like gawking at the watch and stay still. I do it often these days. Nothing much to explain as the days filled with innuendos and sarcasm are long gone.

What steads ahead is an apparition with a dog collar bearing my photograph. A photograph which seldom resembles me and seldom do I venture to think like him.

Enough said for the day. As it turns out, you have actually stopped receiving these letters and your door knob, as Bob said is still intact.

So long, old mate; so long!

Regards,

Abani

The Reminiscent Cat

Dear Prudence,

While drifting down the alley way like Mr. Simon, I came across a few iron gates which were conviniently resting on the face of our urbanity like relics from a more profound darker era. I wrested out a few vivid faces from the past which have benevolently strided forth. Faces - inside out. Like the ballads of Chopin, they too rippled through to inconsequential delights. The beauty of faces forgotten lies in its reconstruction. Deconstruction can only lead to reconstruction as vapourisation leads to rain... as the leftover midnight coffee leads to a tango in the dark which in turn leads to the fresh morning brew. The road which led to the relics in Cambodia has been shut long back. The secrets run astray in the ashtray and in nocturnes.

The last lashes of smoke gently caress the ceiling in another futile effort to abscond. They remind me of you and your last words of floating through to the Greek isle. Do you still walk alone in the half deserted causeways to find wild strawberries?

Facing the waking dawn, I remind myself of the quaint conjectures and receeding smiles... Miles and his saxophone takes me back to the sepia streets which twirled round your conscience to a saw-dust consequence. The path left. Memory fails me today. 

I will not partake in a voyage. I will not yield to the winds. 

Tonight, my dear Prudence I will join the carnival of tramps.

For tonight, you spoke of the dire river that led me to you. 

Regards,

Shamik