Thursday, September 17, 2009

If trains are cars and cars are birds, sky would be an unending platform. Our vehicle with wings and wheels, a forgotten prehistoric animal.

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Wayside boulders on the Mettur road - upturned alphabets of a primordial script.

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A door without a room on either side.

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Each time I hold her close and caress her, a word is born.

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Morning is a lost radio that plays by itself. We add the voice of tumblers to it from our otherwise silent kitchens.

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I want to drive to the wilderness. There, I would see the tiny hands of rain embracing my car's trail.

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An act of escape happens with every death. Not by the dead, but by those around.

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The best possible chapter of a novel would be a poem.

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Memory is an old second hand car that I never get out of.

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