Honey, I’m swinging. It’s the world no more, my head is thrust into the stratosphere which I can barely hold.

Yes, I know, I shove my fears under the dampness of worn lethargic words and between the pages of my Murakami talking about fishes falling from the skies. Your world looks azure and you words little more than the colour of my adolescent monsoons. Your earth is full of people without imagination.. intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. You frighten me, or may be it’s your people who do the trick.

I wait for incessant phone calls on my cell. I wait to hear my own voice again and again. How else do we know we are still alive or dead?