Where we share our compositions, crumpled sheets of paper rustling in the dark, shadowy darkness

Crumpled, rustling sheets of paper. Passed on from one hand to another in complete silence. Greedy eyes taking in every, single word before reluctantly passing the sheets onwards. Storing each hidden story and shy comma right in the centre of the mind, filling the crooks and crannies with the poetry, this wonderful and warm and filling music of words.

Poets and writers and thinkers meeting in the dark underbelly of a bridge, or on the dark side of a billboard high up near the towering buildings. Meeting far away from the mindless people who wander without even knowing they are lost. Yet close enough to those who they can ridicule in silence, shame burning through each word.

If you stop believing in the magic of the world, in those secrets that only you are allowed to see, the friendly and unfriendly spirits who whisper half-words into your ears – if you stop believing in the floating animals and the tiny, tiny horses that fly through the clouds – if you stop wanting to see the bright lights hidden in the darkest of darkness – if you no longer feel like watching the angels that ride on waves of music – if you wander not because you are lost but because you no longer want to go anywhere – if you forget to look at the sky and see all those artists who painstakingly paint the sky every, single day – if you do any of these then you can get it all back. You can return to the sane. The simple. The easily understood. The mindless.

But why would you?

Would you?

Would you give up that precious insanity for a life full of the mundane? Would you?

Why would you?

Would you?


I don’t think questions always get the respect they deserve. Aren’t they like little doors? All you have do is knock and the door opens. But you have to walk inside and you have to walk down the path and you may not immediately know where the path is leading you to.


Some of them just stand there, somewhere in the background, often hidden in this light mist that you often don’t even realise exists. Some of them are more needy, more difficult to ignore. They stare right back at you, and sometimes even dare to get right into your face. Staring you down, impossible to avoid.

And some of them are gentle, lost souls. They do so little to get your attention; partly wanting to be left alone. So afraid of being rejected midway once again. Fearful of being neglected after that brief period of interest.


Do you think they die when they meet an answer? Or are the two like long-lost lovers? Always seeking each other out?


Possibly the greatest human invention?

Yeah I think I would miss questions the most. And I wish you never stop asking them. Ask the questions, don’t forget to ask. Give them the attention they crave. Beware of the tricky ones, the ones who will push you deeper and deeper into the darkness.

Be afraid but don’t stop. No, don’t stop.



A host of social gatherings taught me this new term, “Nice to meet you” What the fuck does that even mean? Bizarre fucking thing. So you drop it in the beginning. Like you are just introduced to someone, shake the hands, and then go “Oh nice to meet you” And I am like fuck no. Fuck I don’t even know you. On what fucking basis am I gonna decide whether it is nice to meet you? Especially the ugly mothafuckas. Dayum! It aint nice to meet you at all. Beetches, let me donate to your plastic surgery fund. PSF bitches, start collectin’

Some people are just not made for social situations.

Was made the buffer zone between two individuals, one of whom was trying to get into the other’s pants. Being made the BZ is like the worst thing in the world. Cause you have to be all sensitive and drop enough hints that the pant-entering aint happening.

Kya chutiyaap hain yaar.

Anyways. You gotta do what you gotta do.

Strange events find me in Delhi. This city, well what can I say. Its the daalhi hainji.

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