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The guitar strings of ‘Hotel California’ feel akin to sounds of mutterings an angel makes in my drowsy head at midnight hours. Lying on the bed, I make incomprehensible symbols with my hands, imagining them to mean something special from the brutal days of the first world war. I think of all that I have seen and felt- warm summer beach days, the sweet smell of black current icicles, the idle sounds of bicycle horns, the distant crimson horizon lined with unceasing mysticism. I remember riding in cabs at night time when the city lights appear blurry and out of focus. Cruising past vehicles, be it on countless highways or dim-lit streets, the way scenes rush past me with hurried movements and hazy visions- they spell absurdity to me. A bizarre sense of alienation strangles me with its hands clasped at my neck. Sometimes, my head becomes a center of throbbing activity so wild, so uncontrollable that I am compelled to laugh at my own insanity. Thoughts have wings. They flutter like butterflies in a summer garden. And the sooner you let them fly away someplace else, they get lost, or worse still, die. My thoughts make me. They mar me. But they supply oxygen to my lungs. Toxicity would play its ace if I don’t put pen to paper. Yes, my thoughts are irrelevant to proportions of extremities but I need to survive in this world somehow. It’s not the way this piece is supposed to be penned down but when destruction comes, I feel obliged to gulp down my creativity like one strong shot of vodka because I too, am perfectly aware of how I’ll have to give in either way; better do it the easy way. It’s funny really. This entire stream of consciousness makes no sense. Maybe I’ll try again some other day. For now, the fact that I managed this is enough for me. Let the skies bleed purple rain tonight, filled with incoherent thoughts, for that’s one good way to smirk at my existence I guess.

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