People round me are so familiar, yet such strangers. They have unaltered visions, outlooks and style but unpredictable characters.
I enter this venture every morning, breathing in various wafts of early morning colognes- expensive and cheap camouflaged in each other like army pants.
Every smell has a different affect on me. It changes my perception, at times for milliseconds and at times for hours together. I rest my eyes on pretty faces and on not so pretty ones and I realise that I always fall for intensity, heads over heels. I mean everyone likes goodlooking people and I admire them too but it all comes down to so many other things for me.

Hope is a funny thing. Its that super glue like faith that sticks on to you in dire times of utmost uncertainty. Clinging on to it like cowards, forgetting that destiny leads the way. Hope. That hope of finding something yummy in the fridge and opening it every 15 minutes when bored like something is inside, hoping against hope that something tasty would grow inside. That hope of luminosity in light & a baby in impotency. Hope bro is what has often coaxed destiny to switch its tracks & alter ways, shift awnings & bloom faces. Hope keeps alive so many hearts & lightens so many eyes... Till well, it subsists.

He was freshly muffled up in a knitted sweater after a long bath to tuck up in bed. His mooney small eyes with pure black sheen rested on the picture of a young duo.
"Arson Weds Frida", read the top of the picture.