I was going to close the lid for the day, but just then your mail came.
Those two three lines of floating words… loosing themselves in the blue screen.
I wish I could get the foldings of your messages with the smell of you writing in your unkempt hair…
but it’s good too.
The distance, the mourning cravings and changes; all flash in front of the eyes like shooting star travels across the panorama.
You usually come once a week through this punky acceptor…
You generally write about how you think of me when somebody shoves their physicality against you…
and how you always drink scotch neat…with music and a monsoon urban concealment.
That’s right scotch neat…my exile too.
But that day you wrote something about selling a mountain,
you write every week even though I don’t ever reply…yeah you are right you can sell a mountain.
I closed the lid. I went for a walk in fading lights. I went to the beach…
Peeping lights of fishing vessels were coming with the proud wind,
I sat there and thought of my mountain…
The one I am keeping under my bed…I think of pawning it sometimes in exchange of my credibility,
but again what could have ever been owned by selling the big pile of your shedded wastages.

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Photograph: Google.