Fingers dimming the lights

I achieve that state again the state where the rotten fish in my mind outweigh the smoked salmon I prepare for my mental dinner.

I achieve the state where a profound sense of sadness grips my oesophagus, slowly but like a vice that tightens with every passing second, it moves and it tightens, its grip cold like a hand dipped into a mixture of ice and water for too long clutching my throat on a hot May afternoon In New Delhi.

It tightens around the oesophagus and clutches the rest of my thorax in a quick but scathing action, leaving my face expressionless and mournful, leaving all the good things in my life scattered and placed around the periphery of my consciousness.

I promised myself I was not going to feel like this anymore, but here we are again, sitting on the hood of Convertible Chevy parked on a cliff overlooking the most beautifully abysmal lake in the world, waiting to make out with the sadness surrounding us.




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