Clad in a quilt, I fill my ashtray with cigarette stubs before the sun wipes gluey darkness off the sky. As the time to jog around the Padma riverside walks comes, I caper and watch fishermen fishing with nets in the river, amateurs waiting with fishing rods, creels lying beside them. I see them surely gratified unlike me, and their euphoria relates to what's found very spry at the outskirts of the city where the river flows on course ignoring ba*tards' philanthropy and strange things happening almost around every corner in the city. Nasty rogues look on me as just sort of dead drunk, (one chap says - Your life's all froth and no beer!) but what the hell do they think they are! Yeats said things fall apart, but I say they just sort of spin as in a whirlpool. Grotty screechers make things spin around me. Years back counting stars for hours on end,
I thought of myself as one ‘out of place anywhere, at home nowhere' and of the steps I should climb in the days to come. I find meaninglessness mounting everywhere, and it runs down my throat with every mouthfull like lead. Yet never do I stop searching for meaning in the sea of meaninglessness like a scuba-diver. All that counts is to love and be loved in return. I am sad, never insane to hate myself for loving life or for not loving it much either. Oh, f#$@ing me! I scream - ‘Things ain't gonna sort of stop dead in their track' and never doubt of my status as your busy fool next door. I rake coal-heated ashes to bring forth the ferocity of fire to get myself burnt straight off to be pure as gold. What shall I do with trials and tribulations of life? How long shall I dig my heart like a wild fox? I toss and turn on bed fighting nightmares.