I am surrounded by thoughts of myself.
Now, I am surrounded by thoughts of myself - thoughts both subliminal and vicarious; thoughts ecstatic and resentful; thoughts that delve and float.
Yes, thoughts of such kind mother - of myself but not so.
I pricked my finger whilst whiling on the mason's work, the concrete that has your affluence since knew my lungs what air was.
'Twas not recognized, not right away at least.
It was so cold around me and the lane jutting from nowhere into this paving where our residence can be found posed an ambience even colder with misty cream over the leaves of the mango trees that I barely bothered to descry the wound that bled. Did my body jolt at the pinch? Not so. Still not so.
What was it that occupied your space in my mind? I do not know, or do not wish to tell.
What was it rankling me at my inmost core? Holy Lord! I got so close to despising you this time.
What shape it had, what color, what sound, and what smell - alas! ALAS! Oh dear mother, was I transgressing the lines of my skin, but stayed I in its propinquity of warm vapours. And I saw the fumes rise out of the tinsels when they were all blunt with no crevice to breathe from;
Oh dear mother, was I also blinded well for was there not more than single a tube that shone the glaze of a bright mirror which caught my eye. Whose light was it reflecting I wondered for...