.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