I can see a few rays of light. They are so bright, so blinding that I am afraid I might lose way. Fffuck!

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I am the kind of person who would start writing a long story about that sparrow on the window sill and end up with a short story of my own childhood. And happy with the product. Or not. But still it has to be a short story. I digress way too much for a long story. Like fuck you should care. So much wish wash for a month? Neah.

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A female once told me that I reminded her of Hari from Chetan Bhagat's Five Point Someone. I still don't know what I should be feeling about it. What I know though is that it hasn't made me buy the book. Thank you, my lassitude. Oh, by the way a friend once said I reminded him of some character from some book by Dostoevsky. I haven't read that book, either. Fuck you, my lassitude.

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What do you call a "ILU Shobha" graffiti on the wall of a train compartment?

A guy's orgasm of emotions. Poor Shobha.