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  • The fractured glass, the streets buzzing with a thousand
    narratives You sleep under the skies blackened greased
    tarpaulin You almost invite violence Of trampling
    And yet you survive You live with less You strike
    back at life with emptiness.

    Under the starry nights dressed in black
    To become one with the night
    The narratives ran like this...
    'A girl was left grieving behind.
    The skies cry when I cry.'
    They say when there is a little sun while it rains
    A fox is getting hitched with a lion
    And such things that make me doubt the intentions of rainbows
    And coffee is good for such musings
    And of course I wouldn't paint the
    walls of the cafe in rainbow hues
    The white of the walls are exactly
    What a writer expanding and stretching
    her grief wants. Melancholy is black
    and white. Either absorbs or reflects

    Love is like public offering where the golden eggs not
    hatched yet are published in font size 32.

    The risks are in fine print.
    I don't do fine print.

    Hello You!

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