Some Whispers are Soundless

Birth and death meet in a house and it embraces both of these two ends of life into one great enigma. A grey mix of love that comes across as love tinted with fear or fear tinted with love. Every house has this enigma in its rooms.

Dehradun. A small girl died in this house first as far as we know. She puked blood. Then after a couple of years the man of the house followed his daughter. Soon the elder daughter died too for no apparent reason. Then the son, the eldest child, survived by his wife and their very small daughter. All in front of the mother. Soon the mother also walked the way of the whole family, leaving her daughter-in-law and the small kid. The mother and daughter moved to Delhi, where they are living now, leaving the empty house with silence.

People come and go. Houses remain there, standing, day and night, year after year, as if waiting even when there is nobody to come until somebody demolishes them. Before they return to their origins, some see more births than deaths with their occupants moving to more convenient, if not better, places, while some others see more deaths than births. Number is not always the weight–to us humans, a death casts a long gloomy shadow on three births of our loved ones. Death is more conspicuous because it tears a hole in the chest of life and smuggles our loved ones out through it and the last time we see them, hear them, touch them, is the last time we have with them. Death nullifies life on this side of the grave, and it often empties a house with a few repeated sweeps leaving it to sink in silence and decay amidst the din of the busy world, like the one in the photograph above.

The patio of an old British lady’s mansion. Soon after Independence, she gave the mansion and the estate to the Mussoorie Post Office which though has moved to a new place still owns it. The house is dilapidated now but parts of it still have a couple of antique-maniac occupants.

Abandoned houses always fascinate me. The gloom, sadness, decay and the evident shabby-gentility they are characterized by, the mute memories the rooms are filled with, the soundless whispers of their stories splashed on the damp, faded, mossy walls–I love these ghosts, their haunting.

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An Armless Son

missing you mama
missing you baba
both old and ill
and me just a son
too far for a hug that speaks
when words fail

I am really worried and weeping that I may not be around when all you want in the world is a warm wordless heartfilling hug as you quietly pass on, letting out the last cloud of breath in a long string of thinness on which your crystal dewdrops slide into the mist and beyond. Unwrapped by these arms still small and delicate to you, unlike those warmth and love, and the beating joy and curving smile that you once greeted me with when I came.

There is a time
once in a lifetime
when all one wants
is just an hug
and no word.

I am just words,
and no arms–
words for the mulct
arms for the dear.

মঙ্গারকপা / Back from a funeral

The poem came visually and aurally, quite in a pre-linguistic fashion. Yes, when I woke up from sleep in the middle of the black night. Then when I got down to writing, the visuals and audios crystalled themselves linguistically. This process is a subtle aesthetic orgasmic experience, and you don’t ever want to get over this. For this one, the linguistic crystallization occurred simultaneously in two languages–some parts in Manipuri, and some other parts in English, the two languages I straddle most comfortably. The blended nature of how I experienced the original bilingual poem has its own distinct, irreplaceable beauty; however, I have separated the strands for better presentation, translated parts from one language to another and vice versa, and have presented the two versions as below, the English and Manipuri lines kept abreast of each other.

Assuming some may find the line alignment of the English version in the ‘preformatted” juxtaposition with Manipuri uncomfortable, I have reproduced the English version at the bottom of the post again.

ঈশিংদা তাশিল্লে                      Fallen into the water.      
কদায়দগিনো খঙদনা--                God knows from where—
অরূবা ঈশিং                        clear water,
ত্রৎ ঈংবা ঈশিং,                     freezing cold
হকচাং কয়াৎ পূম্বা য়াথোকহনবা৷          getting around all organs.
হোই,                             Yes,
মখূৎতু ঙাইহাক্তি লাম্মী                 the hands grope awhile
মখোঙদু ঙাইহাক্তি কাওই৷               the legs kick awhile.
অদৈদি ঈশিংদু হঞ্জিল্লকই                 Then the water returns
করিশু খঙজদবা মতৌদা৷               to its placid innocence.
ফমজিনখ্রবা ঈমায়দা ফমদুনা             Crouched on the icy surface
উই মশাগি হোৎনবা পূম্বা               he sees all his own efforts
ঈশিংনা চূপশিনখিবা,                  being sucked up by the water,
মাগি ফিথোংদবা হকচাং                 his naked body
অঙৌবা গুলিগুমই                     a blueish-white tablet
অরূবা গ্লাসকি ঈশিংদা                 in a glass of clean water
তুমদ্রঙৈ ঙাইহাক্কি প্রীক প্রীক৷             noiselessly bubbling awhile
                                 before it dissolves.

অহিং নোংয়ায়দা মীৎকপ থোরকই৷         He wakes up at midnight.
মঙ্গারকপগুমই মদু                    It feels like back from a funeral
অঙকপা অমম্বা লমদম অমদগি৷           in a strange dark place

মুশিবা তেবল লেম্প নাকলদা              A glass of clean water
অরূবা ঈশিং গ্লাস৷                     beside the shaded table lamp.
অঙৌবা গুলি অমা থাদৈ৷                 He drops a blueish-white tablet in it.
কোঙ্গোল মচা খরা পৃক পৃক              A few tiny bubbles prick up
ঙাইহাক৷                            just awhile.

অমুক তূমথবা য়াদ্রে                     He can't bring himself
মহাক৷                              back to sleep.

The English version is reproduced below again:

Fallen into the water.
God knows from where—
clear water,
freezing cold
getting around all organs.
Yes,
the hands grope awhile
the legs kick awhile.
Then the water returns
to its placid innocence.
Crouched on the icy surface
he sees all his own efforts
being sucked up by the water,
his naked body
a bluish-white tablet
in a glass of clean water
noiselessly bubbling awhile
before it dissolves.

He wakes up at midnight.
It feels like back from a funeral
in a strange dark place.

A glass of clean water
beside the shaded table lamp.
He drops a blueish-white tablet in it.
A few tiny bubbles prick up
just awhile.

He can’t bring himself
back to sleep.

নিংথম ময়ায় / Midwinter

Midwinter
by Tomas Tranströmer (1931–2015)
Nobel Prize in Literature (2011)

শংবান্নবা অমা
ঙাল্লকই ঐগি ফিজোলদৈ৷
নিংথম ময়ায় চবূক৷
জ্রিং জ্রিং মরীকশিংসে উনগি৷
ঐ মীৎ উইশিল্লী৷
ঈচীক হুল্লে তাইবঙসে
অকায়বা মখুল অমা
মদুদৈ অশিবা হোন্দুনা
থাঙই লোন্না ঙমখৈ লান্না৷

Robert Fulton’s translation:

A blue sheen
radiates from my clothes.
Midwinter.
Jangling tambourines of ice.
I close my eyes.
There is a soundless world
there is a crack
where dead people
are smuggled across the border.

 

 

 

 

সোই / Signature

Signature
by Tomas Tranströmer (1931–2015)
Nobel Prize in Literature (2011)

কানশিনবা তারে ঐগি
খোঙ অমম্বা থোঙজিনসিদা৷
শঙজাউ৷
ইঙান ঙাল্লী অঙৌবা চেদু৷
মমি কয়ানা লেঙ লেঙ৷
শোই তৌনীংই পূম্নমক মদুদা৷

মঙালদুনা ঐবু লাকহৎ
মতম্বু খুমজিনখিন্দ্রিখৈ৷

Robert Fulton’s translation:

I have to step
over the dark threshold.
A hall.
The white document gleams.
With many shadows moving.
Everyone wants to sign it.

Until the light overtook me
and folded up time.

 

 

 

To John Ashbery

John Askbery photo by Lynn Davis
Photograph by LYNN DAVIS

Poetry is ash, Ashbery—your dust has already scattered in the wind, been the breath of many who have turned into ashes and joined the dust, wind, fire, water and the sky. I don’t know where you came from, Ashbery, but I think you return where you came from, like all of us. We are ashes for a while and we fly and scatter when the home-bound wind comes.

John Ashbery, the beloved Ashbery, your death has let the hell loose in me again, and a sadist or joyist (who can tell them apart, if they aren’t one and the same thing?), I love it because there is a pleasure in all this. You are like me—guilt tasted pleasing, and it made you a poet, for which you have become the beloved.

Surviving the death of a loved one always accompanies a subtle (often acute) feeling of guilt. Life wants to live and death wants to go on, and unfortunately love cannot bridge the two, to our chagrin. If not bridge, love should be able to keep us together in life, through life, or in death, we petulantly demand. But we the warlike humans, who just don’t let it go without a fight but wage wars against and kill each other for whatever petty thing there can be, can’t possibly put ourselves into any action when death wrests our loved ones from our arms invisibly even as we see it, which is stabbingly painful. And life is such that in most of the cases we drag on (just out of nature, but for nothing obvious to live for—it really feels rather empty, unbearably heavily empty, and you just don’t commit suicide), feeling the fading pang of guilt—the survivor’s guilt fading into general sadness or general weakness that pervades the rest of our life, which gravitates toward and finally empties itself into death. Life with its apparent injustice ends well in ash, so it all seems well. Maybe, there will be a lingering after-life feeling of anger at having put through it that badly.

Ashbery, you go on. Your ash, a berry to home—it sucks you back. All the world is ash. I loved you. I love you. I love myself. Life and death. Living and dying. I don’t put myself to a final death maybe because that would deprive me of the (extended) pleasure of continual dying, the pleasure of hating life that in turn breeds love of life, the pleasure of feeling angry at being wronged or done out of something good. The sadism or joy of all this.

Of God and Men (Part 2)

Click go to to Part 1

When the boy returns with a bottle of water, Stille first drips a few drops into his (the man’s) mouth, which he immediately swallows eagerly. He then tilts a half-filled glass slowly into his mouth, which the man drinks more eagerly until his mouth shuts before Stille cants off the glass dry.

It seems he is relived for a while–his complaining eases off and then stops. The mist of tension lifts. Even the old woman rises with an effort and comes trudging past Stille, stops beside him and smiles weakly down at the man.

Is she his wife older by five or ten years? Stille wonders. Or his mother, him having sprinted through his life so fast almost overtaking his mother’s age, perhaps consumingly quickened by what he is suffering from?

Soon the creases of faint smile around her lips and eyes wither back home into the usual crow’s feet, and she leaves there before long, trudges back and sits down at a new place, curled up like before. However, when Stille begins to think of going back, the man starts again, and worse this time. He tosses and turns and twists and kicks, and the low moans develop into long-drawn shrieking cries. The spirits that showed a weak rise during the momentary let-up quail.

“What is the doctor saying?” Stille asks the boy without expecting much of an answer of the boy.

“Nothing!” He is quick on the trigger.

Exactly, Stille thinks.

He leans over the man and asks him in a calm, firm voice, “Please don’t cry. Let’s face this.”

The swaying of the head breaks off, and in the dark, steep depressions in the gnarly emaciated face, a pair of glinting eyeballs rolls to a stop to look at the speaker. “What do you want me to do?” Stille asks softly.

The eyeballs glint at Stille for a moment. There is no anger in them. No defiance. No suspicion. No wickedness. Nothing. Just pain, fear and confusion. Then the head that begins to sway takes them in tow. Now his body twists and then his legs shake as if they were kicking off the pain.

Stille leans back up, shifts his position a bit toward his left and begins to massage the man over his blanket. Unaware of what is troubling him and where the trouble lies, Stille is quite quick about the massage covering the man’s back, waist and legs. However, it seems that the man’s body does not feel his massage—the man groans on, as if the pain is as deep as his marrow, oozing out of the pores of his bones, unaffected by the massage.

“My skull! Frozen! My legs!” The slurred murmur amid his moans is fibered. He is tired, but the illness pulsates what remains in him. His slurs a second language to him now, the boy gets closer to the bedhead on the other side and massages the man’s skull with both his little hands, the fingers hooked and flicked out like the prongs of a harpoon. Stille moves further left down to the foot and finds the feet cold like a block of ice. The temperature felt normal five minutes ago. He manages to rub them fast until the increasingly more terrible jolting makes it impossible. Then the man gives himself up to more jolting, more strained groaning, cursing and crying.

The night has both ends of sound—silence and this man’s cry—together in such a strange fashion. There is the engulfing silence and his occasional cry tears into its pitching, throwing its spear-tipped flight into the darkness toward the other end of the long ward. And the ward’s dark silence kisses the sound dry off it even as it flies and turns it into one of its kind. The silent sitters who have woken up remain still like ghosts pitched in their sick beds black against the dull glass windows.

The place felt empty to Stille when he entered, and now when he scans the space allotted to the bed, its emptiness feels so chilling—the bed, the stainless steel on one side of the bed, the rusted steel bedside table with cabinets between the bed and the wall, which the hospital provides, and nothing else, except for a small bag under the bed and a small plastic trough smelling of urine. The steel cabinets contain no medicine. The only vestige of medicine is the spent plastic IV bottle on the hanger attached to the bed, with the tube casually coiled back up and the connector plugged into the hub of an extra needle punched into it.

Did the woman or the boy put the prescription away? In one of the half open empty cabinets? The darkness inside would not give away a small piece of paper that anybody would tend to fold. Or in a shirt or trousers pocket or in a petticoat pocket, as many Throny Vale women of the lower middle class steeped in hard earning with some valued money usually show doing when they furtively loosen the phanek slit to reach for the money when they need to part with part of that on a bill at a hospital or on an unavoidable distant trip? It is not anywhere visible, but yes we don’t put a prescription on the show. We tend to take prescriptions carefully even when we are too broke to make them meaningful and keep them at a safe place intensifying the feeling of safety, false as it may be, and the lesser money we have, the tighter and tighter does our hold get. How tightly a penniless person holds a prescription shows how tightly and dearly they hold their loved ones on a hospital bed against the pull of death, as if the piece of paper were the very soul of their loved ones.

The boy shakes his head. The innocent face has learnt to show despair. Stille shifts his eyes to the man in noisy torment and it looks like he is dying.

Stille’s lips tighten. He draws in a long draft of air and gives a long sigh, and taking a couple of brisk steps toward the right, he leans low over the man’s face and asks,

“Do you believe in God? In Allah, or any God?”

Is he hesitating? The man gives no visible sign readable as a response to Stille’s question. Not even a different twitch in his lean face almost grotesque in fighting pain. Does he not believe in the idea of God or is he pissed off with me bringing in the far-fetched, inane and useless idea of God while he is struggling for life?

 

Go to Of God and Men (Part 1)

 

Of God and Men (Part 1)

But little folk who will not climb
Into bed at the proper time
Get acquainted by-and-by
With Sleep’s big brother Hushabye.

“Ssssh,” says Hush to girls and boys,
“Go to sleep, and don’t make a noise.”

As he occasionally does, Stille Quiete looks up from the book—The Raibow Book by Samuil Marshak—toward his sister sleeping soundly on her hospital bed, the head section raised a little to her comfort. The transparent IV solution is dripping from the plastic bag hung from its hanger hook into the drip chamber slowly and regularly, and from there it curls down the tube through the roller clamp, takes a few circular turns where the tube lies in a few casual coils, flows through the needle and finally enters her body. She is recovering from a bad cardiac arrest.

“Eeeyouch!” This time the groan from the other ward is disturbing, both in loudness and the anguish it is filled with. “Mama! Aaaaugh! Somebody kill me please!”

The loud cry, cursing and howling in sharp pain continues in the hospital ward in the wee hour of the night when nobody—no patients and no attendants—makes a noise except for the whizzing of breathing and the rustles of shifting in bed once in a while and an occasional cough or two here and there. His sharp cry rings clearly in the silence and many wake up and sit up without complaining but worried.

“Something is really wrong with this guy.” Toiler Hard, husband of Lina Hard, the patient, turns in the cushioned divan on Stille’s left, which he has turned into a makeshift bed.

The sound disturbing to the others does not disquiet Stille, whose thresholds of the intensity of silence and noise are off the chart. But he quietly puts the open book face down on the steel bedside table with cabinets, walks out the door without a leaf, continues for a while in the corridor and disappears into the long ward on the other side.

With all lights out, the ward is semi-dark, lit only by the cold light from the lamps along the gravel path in the hospital campus on the other side that is thrown on the walls along with the skewed shadows of the windows. The man’s cry and cursing makes it easy for Stille to locate him in the semi-dark.

When Stille sees and approaches him, he finds the reduced, sixtyish-year old body of the man in agony from which the loud, high-pitched cry originates, and he restlessly tosses and turns in his bed in the semi-darkness attended only by a confused pre-teen boy who, at a loss, only keeps readjusting the blanket that keeps slipping off as the man writhes, and an old withered woman in head scarf seated on the naked floor (hospital floors—kneaded by restless shoes with dirt and floor cleaner and smelling of medicines and phthalates, triclosan, ammonia, chlorine and other chemicals—are a dreadful paradox of cleanliness and dirtiness) curled up and leaning on a wall near the foot of the bed, her forehead resting on a palm and the hand supported on the folded knees. A pathetic picture of utter confusion, hopelessness and resignation.

Stille rushes to the staff nurses’ station. In the low light of a power-saving night bulb, the place lies still, the swivel chairs and stainless steel stools empty; the several piles of files, record and register books ranged neatly on the desk, with a couple of medicine boxes lying in the spaces in between; and the visible corners of the open station harboring some unnamable dire-looking light pieces of hospital equipment and a couple of oxygen tanks clamped onto their carts leaning on the wall; a squattish off-white fridge humming at 40 Hz, quite peskily uncomfortable if you continually hear it in the silence.

They must be asleep, Stille thinks. He turns and looks around as he steps slowly, reading the door signs legible from this distance—Nurse Changing Room, Sterilization Room, and here is the Sister on Duty.

A nurse answers his knock and opens the door, her eyes crumpled from lack of sleep. Stille does not have to say much to identify the patient and his problem—she guesses it right and fast, which feels like there being something about it more than years of experience.

When they are back, Stille finds the light on.

“The sedative isn’t working?” She asks when they are at the man’s bedside, looking at the man and then at the empty tube attached to his hand and the plastic IV bag shaking caught on the hanger hook. Her control and casualness could not cover her irritation. The old woman on the floor turns and looks toward the nurse.

“Relax. You are on a sedative.” The nurse hates it that the emaciated man has so high a threshold or is refractory to α-2 adrenergic agonists. She goes round the bed to the other side, removes the connector from the cannula luer lock, caps the lock, casually coils the tube up and hangs the coil on the hook after capping the connector.

She must have been so fed up with that man that she then slips into scolding him loudly in the silence of the night. With a grimace he turns his head to the left and wearily stares at the wall, and his noisy complaints, cries, restless toss and turn stop all of a sudden as if an insensitive reproach were more effective than a sedative. Is he angry with the nurse? Or is he rather thankful that the nurse’s reproach pulls him back out of a dark abyss he has plunged into, like a 200–1000-volt shock defibrillates an arrested heart quivering into a final rest.

She swings the doors of the two cabinets on the bedside table one after another and looks casually into them. Then as she rises, she pushes the doors back in listlessly just to leave them half-open and leaves without a word further. A newcomer, who arrived the last evening just a few hours ago, Stille cannot not understand a thing about it.

“What’s he suffering from?” Stille asks the boy.

“I don’t know,” he says innocently.

The old woman has retreated into her somber silence.

The light goes out a few seconds after the nurse’s departure, and turning round to see any sign of who may be doing that, Stille catches, three beds away, a grainy glimpse of a black figure in the dark move from the wall and it fades into the pervasive darkness below the level of the beds. Used to gloomy rooms and finding the cold light reflected from the wall in this part end of the ward sufficient, he does not complain. The old woman and the boy also seem to be accustomed to darkness.

Stille turns to the agonizing man, ready to do something about him. But the man confuses him—he complains his chest is burning and Stille attends, and almost at the same moment he says his feet are icy cold. Stille checks and they are not, but he removes the blanket from over the man’s chest to fold it up and cover his feet. Then the complaints pile up–“This head is frozen. Oh, my feet–burning. My chest–something pierces me. Ah, cold chest. Cold feet. Hot head.” All almost simultaneously–he just takes time to give words to what is happening to him, it seems. It is like ice, fire and pain are running here and there all over his body, taking turns to occupy different parts of the body momentarily. Stille shifts the blanket very fast and massages the muscles as the pains ghost around.

Despite all Stille’s sweating, the man’s complaint does not subside. Amid his breathless moaning, he asks for water. Stille looks at the boy who is standing still and confused on the other side of the bed opposite him—he does not move in response to “water,” the man’s thirst.

“Water!” Stille says.

“Run out of it,” he replies resignedly.

The woman on the floor shifts in response and glances slightly toward us, apparently apologetically. The weak light through the windows from the hospital campus thrown on the walls cannot light up her face enough, but it seems she is wiping a few drops of fresh tear off her cheeks.

Stille tosses off a twenty rupees note from his pocket and gives it to the boy.

“Go run. Fast as you can.”

The boy disappears and Stille continues to help the man as he keeps rolling and complaining, but not so terribly as he did before.

 

Go the Of God and Men (Part 2)

Sleeping Home

When you can’t carry your own weight
against the earth’s call for a fall
life is reduced to the weight
of flesh, blood and bone.

The old man settles into his unmade bed,
made only by the fussy wind from the sea—
a bundle of wrinkles among the messy folds.
Old and spent, he sleeps the last sleep.

No snore. The folds and wrinkles at rest.
It feels like time has done with all its fuss—
there is nothing stirring in the bedroom,
in the living room, the corridors, the kitchen,
on the stairs and the cornice—the white silk curtains
in frozen stirs at the windows, and the breeze
caught in the cobweb of the air.

None will hear and the air won’t feel touched
when the old door creaks again to close
when you’ve walked home in your sleep.

Running away from Time

Those fingers—those—
The fingers of time—
They press me out of life.

The light from the stars—from ancient miles—
And the present glitter in my eyes—
They meet in a kiss—
Sucking the breath out of me—life.

I run away from time
From bodies of time creeping around,
and here in the dark
I struggle to plug every hole
with time-tight tissues
I have torn away from my heart
to keep myself warm
and untouched by decay
until I stop my breath.

Innocence and …

Tamo Doren of Photo Max verbally nudged me (he was busy covering the wedding we attended) and looking back I saw the man. He stood out from the more than hundred people gatheted at the wedding hall and the several many people passing by in that narrow alley. I was immediately interested. He was restless for the whole time he stoood at the gate of the hall and scratching himself a lot–his hands and legs. Finally he sat down in the middle of the narrow alley dedicated to the scratching job. A symptom.

I had been waiting for a chance to photograph the cute girl in the picture. She was conscious of my camera and she shyly hid herself behind her eight-year old brother every time I held up the camera. When I turned away, she teasingly ran around me. I waited for a chance.

I was lucky to get both of them in a single shot.

 

Ways of Dying (“Died” in the passive voice)

One of the most emotionally fragile day. I consider myself as one of the simplest, naivest persons in the world. Perhaps verging on stupidity, if not stupidity exactly. A caveman. I am exactly a caveman, and this world is not for the types of me. Not about good or bad–I am just a misfit here, and my world often caves in and I get buried in the rubble heap. I just feel like dying. Especifically, death coming to me, to do his own job. I don’t want to do his job because I trust no place. Bad trust everywhere.

When my death comes, I die. I is the grammatical subject doing the action of dying. The dier. The doer of the action of death. But thematically, I is not an agent; it is an experiencer. I experiences death. I undergoes death. Something I has to. Something I cannot escape. Something like emposed on I.

This dying that happens when death comes is different from the kind of death that happens when the subject is the agent of the act of dying. That is in committing suicide. In death, the responsibility of the transfer of being (if being continues) from one state to another or from one plane to another or from one place to another is with what causes death–nature or God, just for the lack of term and undrstanding. When the subject takes their own life, nobody else is responsible for the transfer and I personally don’t know where I can put what I have snatched from this uncomfortable life. There may not be any place. There may be places, good or better, bad or worse than the ones known here. I just don’t want to do other people’s job. I am lazy. On my own. I don’t even want to be the fucker when having sex. I wanna be fucked. (By the way, I hate bed hopping, and I am not a guy to drink from a greasy cup. My life in this regard is clean and smooth–if a fly happens to setyle on me (=my morality), it, with all its six (or eight?) legs will slip and break all its legs on the floor. I ain’t being funny. Serious.) There is just one thing where I hate to be passive–if I am a gay, I will always be the giver and never the receiver. That is it. Otherwise, I don’t want to do anything, let alone committing suicide, which also involves pain and things like that. I once hanged myself from the ceiling and that painfully bruised my neck–I looked myself in the mirror after my father and brother hijacked my flight to death.

I would love it if death comes to me like I got lucky in a lottery. Somebody picks up my number and the other the winner’s what-do-you-call-it. Like a heart attack. Unfortunately I am damn healthy. I pump iron in the gym everyday–exerting all my angry and frustrated energy in pumping iron. I wish I die in a nightmare–an anaconda or something swallowing me whole in a dream and me dying. 😀. Unfortunately, I am an insomniac. And if I sleep, I almost never dream. I wish somebody just kills me. Unfortunately, nearly everybody seems to love me, except a girl (but she won’t kill me to be a murderer–so kind), and a politician or two, but they don’t want to incur trouble killing me. So sad. I have got to do a heavy-weight thinking about ways to get “died,” dying in the passive voice. I am serious. Though smilingly.

Silence. Wordless. My language now.

Beside a Crematorium

This one is a very big file of above 100 MB. Composited from about ten shots. With the RAM of only 1 GB left on my laptop (the other RAM had some problems and now I have to put it back on my laptop), I had a very hard time working on it. I would like to rework on it, it seems. Posting here just for security.