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
