Corridors

Dear Prudence, 

Your lack of speech was not appreciated this time. Well, your ever changing address is another pressure point in some adipose infested part of my body. 
To tell you the truth, truth seems a little too acrid these days. Hence, I invest upon fonder means of vacant entertainment. 

Yes, times, they're changing. 

There is a piece of news. The sort which has already being partially imprinted upon the mind by unavoidable facts or coincidences and needs a mere confirmation to be rendered valid.

Yes, I am back to my former place of dwelling. There is a unique sense of liberation and all that jazz. To cut the crap-cake, it’s just a trick of the presumptuous mind. All we need is an invasion of that carefully curtained corridor which is best left to the onlooker's imagination. If like a pungent fart, someone gushes into it, the grass automatically burns green on the other side. All the more, being a fanciful and phony stoic, I will never listen to the hungriest of tides.

In flute induced corridors did I find a recluse looking for a way out? You patted him, didn't you?
Did you ever bother to utter a single syllable? You are a diplomat, ain't you? You smelt it, like a seagull smells carrion. There was winter in you veins. You scripted it. You scripted my March before January could smirk.

These days, when I am left to what I the best, i.e., loathe, I visualize corridors. Even when I am writing this letter (not to see if you're better), I think of you in a corridor, waiving to an obnoxious neighbour.
You waiving to your neighbour. How can I even think on such material terms? Touché.

Started with sills that too rusty, now I have this ardent need of landing up in a corridor. Everything seems so tranquil in a corridor.

However, each corridor is excruciatingly empty if the doors are closed.


Regards,
Abani