The days are peeling off like a scorch is shedding its outer skin, to give space and support to the new layer, But it still hurts.

The shadow seem ebbing away in the light of the sun, Insooth, it is evanescing into that ever widening encrust of heart's rock-bottom never to be found again. But to be trans-formed.

The lust to meet new people is so lost in time, like a toddler loses interest in toys of youthful joy. It loves them. But still throws them away.

The chilly winter breeze frightens like succumbing oneself to tuberculosis, slowly and obliviously. But still one lives.

The hope for hope is lost, it sleeps unwarily, unflappable and untouched by the daily wars of pity nuisance fought by instigators. But it still exists somewhere.

And in this charade of emotions, the one baffling emotion is to sit in front of a screen listening to creaking 'voices' and gazing 'faces' which feel the same, but still do nothing.