So no one seems to be saddened about the dissonance buffeting the distance.
A day here which I call my day And a day there which I call her day look like mirror images of each other, with laws of refraction and reflection playing spoilsport and laws of attraction groping for the subjects.
The voices, the sounds, the sighs, the yawns, the laughter, when meet with indifference of earlobes, make the eyes, a fodder for a sensitive artist.
The power of distance playing second fiddle to power of path waits for consecration of those sights which are yet to be stripped of rainless clouds.
