A slaty grey sky. A dusty haze of winter of chilly wind. Slashes of yellow strokes as dried leaves float down. A Sunday morning waiting to weep.

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Ekla boshey anomoney, raater aandhar aschey nemey, soptorshir halko alo, rater chokhey tondra elo. Oboshonno monta sheshey, khujey ferey shopno deshey.

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Keys to imagination. Should that be tamed by the realms of reality ? Or let it have the escape velocity to go where no thoughts have gone before.

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They say you should be natural to be happy. But amigo ! You are bound trussed and gagged by rules to be polite and social. So show your dentures even if you do not feel it. Feelings ? Mea culpa.

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