Bickle fitch.

I had forgotten how much I had missed this. Staying up all night playing guitar till the sky turned from black to that beautiful hue of purple-blue I love so much. Then sitting down and writing a blogpost on impulse. Delaying sleep as much as possible. Misspelling words. Cringing inwardly at that spell check's wavy red underline. I somehow hate the green lines more. They're idiotic sometimes. Its a bad idea to think about grammar at six in the morning.

I guess this is the time when I am supposed to reminisce. Introspect. Be a bit nostalgic and crib about how I can't write in verse. Eh. All I want is a piece of toast. A large piece of toast. With butter on it. Lots of. I want a hot crispy toast with lots of butter on it. And some scotch.

The sky is a lighter shade now. I liked it better before. This time of the day somehow always reminds me of studying. If I would have to make a list of the most important things in my life right now, I would be stumped. Maybe I am too self conscious to admit to myself my priorities, but I cannot write them down. Something has to be wrong with that.

I miss Panjim. If I could, I wouldn't have come back. The fact that I have feels like a defeat.

Maybe I'll settle for breakfast. Or not.

Night.

Shoestring lullaby.

Bones of a sunday afternoon.

Its that time again when I ve seemingly forgotten how to string words together into sentences. Meaningful ones, preferably. Though not necessarily. There was a time when I used to write to tell a story. Then there was a time when I wrote for someone. That bunch of shit would look profound in the first read, but it wasnt. It was just a bunch of shit. Tonight I don't know what to write about. Still, I type on, making a fool of myself on paper.

Eh, its okay.

Sigh. No. Its not.