They haven’t seen each other for six hundred cups of bitter coffee. Millions of thoughts, outstanding and mediocre, have been blown away wastefully by the wind and carried high amid the dreaming spires of hopes and frustrations. Now he feels that time has played some wicked game with him, and he is no longer sure whether his senses are his own or he has been lured into experiencing them against his will…
He sniffed, desperately trying to make use of all his china lexicon with blue fringe with futile efforts to explain himself to himself. He definitely needed an assistant-interpretess who could turn his fragments of sentences into something understandable and tangible. For a long time he had known, now he did not and the spires beckoned threatening to turn out to be Mara-like.
It happened when he was walking down his favourite street – his thoughts in the sky, his feet on the ground, his body balancing somewhere amidst. It was one of the walks he took a delight in – self-examination, fatigue and the dumb cries art loudly. His muscles vibrated in sweet trembling, his eyes radiated joy, as if he anticipated something beautiful to bring light into his outspirited world of obscurity.
From the very early days he knew exactly what the work was, the sacred toil.