Bar

The book has blotches now. Like drops of rust. Somewhere else there is Rakhi while I lie flat on my back. The book has a note too written in another time. It still makes sense to me. I wish though, I could go back to the place where the rain of words is so heavy it obscures everything else.

The clouds at sunset today were tinged a shade between orange and pink, like a photograph of peaks covered in snow. The evening was an improvement upon the morning.