The problem of being homeless is after a certain time you get comfortable with everything.
There are so many suicides roaming around this city…
out of boredom, out of continuity, out of alcoholism.
The park benches, the broken shacks, the outclassed transportations…
I am hoping the voids to be filled with rain,
I am sleeping with a sensation of getting naked women on my chest,
I am moulding a man who can give God to everyone except himself.
The bleeding through a poetry, the dystopia thought of getting creativity out of this constant world,
it’s too much to think about the desires of an artificial time,
how can you love something, when you are sure that it will last?

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Photograph: Nilanjan Ray.