The Cave-in: I
He was coming home after long.
In his heart
Floated lovely strains
Of their tender,
Very own love-song.
He skipped and hopped
And reached his 7th floor.
Fished out the key quick
To open the door.
And, there she was
On their bed.
Blazing beautiful in her charms
Peacefully propped –
In his best friend’s arms.
The Cave-in: II
The footsteps woke her up.
She looked up at him -
Into his eyes.
Searching.
He looked back
Absolutely blank.
No anguish, no cries.
Moments hung
Silence lay suspended.
She looked up to him
And then her beau.
He took in her look
And, turned away -
Leaving behind the stillness
To quietly bid adieu.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
A Dreary March 23rd, 2005
Our front door is the least used door in the house. There are no finger stains around the doorknob and the paint is as fresh as the day the door got attached to its frame. This door never gets used because in this country we rarely have unexpected visitors or friendly neighbors stopping by for casual chit-chat. Even if they did they won’t ever find anyone home. The expected visitors, friends and family always enter through the garage door.
The other reason we forget, at times, that we have a front door, is the blanket of snow that carpets the walkway leading away from the door. It covers it all, the flower beds on the sides, our lawn, our driveway. We usually just hop into the garage, press the button that operates the garage door and drive out. Until last week.
It felt like spring. Every last bit of snow had melted away. That feeling of rejuvenation and regeneration was in the air. I looked out my bay windows and saw little yellow tulip buds bursting out of our little flower patch. I yelled out to my near and dear ones, “Hey! Spring is here! C’mon out you guys!” So after four long months we finally unlocked our front door and took a few tentative steps outside, looking for buds on the cherry tree and other signs of baby greens. We ambled around, drinking in the balminess, feeling so refreshed. The rest of the day was pleasant, spirits high.
Fast forward 24 hours. Misery! Utter misery. It snowed all day. Looking out the window of my 16th floor office, my quasi-home, I felt teary-eyed as I watched the large snow-flakes falling and slowly carpeting the streets of New York. It was a nasty, wet snow. People on the streets had their useless umbrellas out, the high winds had whipped most umbrellas inside-out and the folks attached to the umbrellas appeared as though they were about to pull a “Mary Poppins” act! This after the first day of spring, the vernal equinox! I felt physically assaulted by this most unwelcome return of the white, slippery, icy stuff. I COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!
My bus left the terminal at 4:00 PM and crept along at the sedate pace of 5 mph. I fitfully dozed and read as the bus crept home, the wheels grinding ice below. Several overturned cars, flashing police lights and jack-knifed tractor-trailers later it finally pulled into the “park & ride” where I usually leave my car. My nightmare wasn’t over yet. I still had to clean the six inch accumulation of snow off my windshield and rear windows and then had to plan the best ice-driving strategy for my drive back home.
I got to work on my car as the ice pellets bruised my face. I tried to brush all the accumulated and partially frozen snow off my car at a pace faster than the rate of the falling snow.
Earlier in the day I had had this lengthy conversation, on a writers’ forum, about “Eve” being in “chains”! It kept replaying in my head as I performed this extremely strenuous task, formerly the exclusive domain of Adam. Where was my Adam? I also thought of the various enchained Eves I knew here in the US, who never learnt how to drive, or how to gas up their cars, or how to fill basic forms, or travel alone, who were completely paralyzed in the absence of their Adams! Perhaps they had the right idea. Who wants to shovel snow or drive alone in an ice storm!
Here I was, an unchained Eve in all my glory! Another voice came floating in from the deeper recesses of my brain, “In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun..”, sure was hard-pressed to find this elusive element today! I was also worried about the remaining drive back home and found Julie Andrews in my brain again, bursting forth with, “I have confidence in sunshine, I have confidence in rain, I have confidence in confidence alone, be-sides which you see I have confidence in me!”
The other reason we forget, at times, that we have a front door, is the blanket of snow that carpets the walkway leading away from the door. It covers it all, the flower beds on the sides, our lawn, our driveway. We usually just hop into the garage, press the button that operates the garage door and drive out. Until last week.
It felt like spring. Every last bit of snow had melted away. That feeling of rejuvenation and regeneration was in the air. I looked out my bay windows and saw little yellow tulip buds bursting out of our little flower patch. I yelled out to my near and dear ones, “Hey! Spring is here! C’mon out you guys!” So after four long months we finally unlocked our front door and took a few tentative steps outside, looking for buds on the cherry tree and other signs of baby greens. We ambled around, drinking in the balminess, feeling so refreshed. The rest of the day was pleasant, spirits high.
Fast forward 24 hours. Misery! Utter misery. It snowed all day. Looking out the window of my 16th floor office, my quasi-home, I felt teary-eyed as I watched the large snow-flakes falling and slowly carpeting the streets of New York. It was a nasty, wet snow. People on the streets had their useless umbrellas out, the high winds had whipped most umbrellas inside-out and the folks attached to the umbrellas appeared as though they were about to pull a “Mary Poppins” act! This after the first day of spring, the vernal equinox! I felt physically assaulted by this most unwelcome return of the white, slippery, icy stuff. I COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!
My bus left the terminal at 4:00 PM and crept along at the sedate pace of 5 mph. I fitfully dozed and read as the bus crept home, the wheels grinding ice below. Several overturned cars, flashing police lights and jack-knifed tractor-trailers later it finally pulled into the “park & ride” where I usually leave my car. My nightmare wasn’t over yet. I still had to clean the six inch accumulation of snow off my windshield and rear windows and then had to plan the best ice-driving strategy for my drive back home.
I got to work on my car as the ice pellets bruised my face. I tried to brush all the accumulated and partially frozen snow off my car at a pace faster than the rate of the falling snow.
Earlier in the day I had had this lengthy conversation, on a writers’ forum, about “Eve” being in “chains”! It kept replaying in my head as I performed this extremely strenuous task, formerly the exclusive domain of Adam. Where was my Adam? I also thought of the various enchained Eves I knew here in the US, who never learnt how to drive, or how to gas up their cars, or how to fill basic forms, or travel alone, who were completely paralyzed in the absence of their Adams! Perhaps they had the right idea. Who wants to shovel snow or drive alone in an ice storm!
Here I was, an unchained Eve in all my glory! Another voice came floating in from the deeper recesses of my brain, “In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun..”, sure was hard-pressed to find this elusive element today! I was also worried about the remaining drive back home and found Julie Andrews in my brain again, bursting forth with, “I have confidence in sunshine, I have confidence in rain, I have confidence in confidence alone, be-sides which you see I have confidence in me!”
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Upside Down
A few months back I was sitting in a hospital lounge and I picked up a magazine, The Week, to while my time. The magazine had an article on existence of God and detailed some chemist or physicist, Dr. Unwin's work on God's existence. Dr. Unwin used Bayes theorem and the concept of conditional probability to prove God's existence. He began with the premise that the chance God exists is 50:50. Then he threw in more information and revised his a priori probabilities. The iterative process continued till he exhausted his set of information. The end result was that the probability that God exists is 2/3.
I picked it up from there and wrote this.
Upside Down
Upside down
Like a sage’s tale
Spun in a Darwinian yarn
We receive life’s wisdom-
One day there is God,
The other nothing.
In a sprawling precinct of a mosque
From the member to the mehrab
I see strange bedfellows-
Descartes conforming Islam.
But between the matter and the myth
Between the sword and the scythe
God waivers like a quark;
Like a twist in a tale
Poignant, humorous, stark
I turn a page
There is ‘Paradise Lost’ in its verses
I turn another
God struts in probability’s realm with Bayes.
A million tongues sprout here
With a million words on their tips
But I have heard of a chemist
Who works backwards to reach forward.
He says the chance that God exists is 2/3
(Surely a smaller fraction than 9/11)
And unwittingly he is named Dr. Unwin
©Murtaza Danish Husain
August 7, 2004
Revised February 22, 2005
I had the option to use the english words for arabic words member (pulpit) and mehrab (arch) but I retained the arabic ones purely for the phonetic effect. Similarly, I am not sure whether Dr. Unwin is a physicist or a chemist but I have retained chemist because it conveys subtle drama.
I picked it up from there and wrote this.
Upside Down
Upside down
Like a sage’s tale
Spun in a Darwinian yarn
We receive life’s wisdom-
One day there is God,
The other nothing.
In a sprawling precinct of a mosque
From the member to the mehrab
I see strange bedfellows-
Descartes conforming Islam.
But between the matter and the myth
Between the sword and the scythe
God waivers like a quark;
Like a twist in a tale
Poignant, humorous, stark
I turn a page
There is ‘Paradise Lost’ in its verses
I turn another
God struts in probability’s realm with Bayes.
A million tongues sprout here
With a million words on their tips
But I have heard of a chemist
Who works backwards to reach forward.
He says the chance that God exists is 2/3
(Surely a smaller fraction than 9/11)
And unwittingly he is named Dr. Unwin
©Murtaza Danish Husain
August 7, 2004
Revised February 22, 2005
I had the option to use the english words for arabic words member (pulpit) and mehrab (arch) but I retained the arabic ones purely for the phonetic effect. Similarly, I am not sure whether Dr. Unwin is a physicist or a chemist but I have retained chemist because it conveys subtle drama.
Scipio
The Mediterranean stretched before him.
In smouldering scuttled hulks, the enemy fleet
lay dead, once pride and pest
of that placid main. The heat
troubled him; he felt oppressed.
And the land held nothing for him.
His eyes roved over the waste. All round,
death rose in listless wisps of smoke: its reek
would drape history like a shroud.
Turning, he gazed awhile on his salt streak,
that runnel of ruin he had ploughed
to neuter this obstinately fecund ground.
Tired, he faced northwards again, and home.
His eyes briefly brimmed. No unlettered lout,
his mind hovered on distant Troy,
and saw in a poet’s dirge to a rout
no cause for a victor’s joy,
but a lament for his own beloved Rome.
***
In smouldering scuttled hulks, the enemy fleet
lay dead, once pride and pest
of that placid main. The heat
troubled him; he felt oppressed.
And the land held nothing for him.
His eyes roved over the waste. All round,
death rose in listless wisps of smoke: its reek
would drape history like a shroud.
Turning, he gazed awhile on his salt streak,
that runnel of ruin he had ploughed
to neuter this obstinately fecund ground.
Tired, he faced northwards again, and home.
His eyes briefly brimmed. No unlettered lout,
his mind hovered on distant Troy,
and saw in a poet’s dirge to a rout
no cause for a victor’s joy,
but a lament for his own beloved Rome.
***
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Decaying Church
With thanks to mon frere for patience and MacNeice for inspiration
These chipped and weathered planks in tired row
Grow mutely crab-wise through the drifting gold.
Old and stark in mellow autumn time,
Grimy sentinels liveried in flaking mold.
Cold stirs a sigh and breeze in grass below
Blows dry leaves through the church-bell�s muffled chime.
The creeping green velvet fingers go
Slowly probing up the walls behind.
Blind panes stare amber-tinted light.
Tight-bound patterns of Victorian mind
Find ease amid the fading glow.
Yellow plaster walls slide into tropic night.
Seventh day, seventh year, seventh decade past,
Fast fading. Dust thou art and unto dust
Must thou in time return.
Fern cascades shield the crumbling corpse from urban lust.
Just a song at twilight shimmers, dying fast.
Last echoes fade. Beyond, the creeping watch-fires burn.
We are gathered here today ...
This one, with apologies to James for the slothfulness. But it is appropriate since it is this love that binds us ...
When we were very young, my grandfather would take my cousin and me to the British Council Library on Saturdays. It was then housed in an old colonial building on Theatre Road (now Shakespeare Sarani, a rare example of ideologues being witty) and we had to show our cards at the gate, stand in line at the counter to return our books and only then WALK FAST BUT DO NOT RUN to the staircase at the back, leading up to the Children's Section. Yes, there was a children's section then and for some years afterwards, before Margaret Thatcher, Lady Ironpants, Attila the Hen, a pox upon her, banished it to outer darkness on the pretext of cutting costs.
The keen thrill of anticipation I felt then surpasses every possible emotion - love ambition sex music food success, nothing can compare. Rushing sedately, if such an action is possible, up the two flights of the staircase to where the magic lay waiting in the shelves.
And then an hour of browsing, the pangs of having to CHOOSE just four books, if only I could take just one no three more, the patient short-listing for a final selection, inveigling my younger cousin into taking one for me on her card, yes I will give you my share of chocolate tomorrow (I must confess I usually welshed on that, I was a young glutton and no Pal you will NOT comment upon the choice of tense), the final selection and the sorrow of parting with the books I left behind on the table at the head of the stairs �
Refined torture on the journey (Such a long journey!) back, 'you will not read in the car, it's bad for your eyes' (edict writ in words of stone, he was a disciplinarian), the furtive peeks into the first few pages if I managed to get into the front seat before my cousin, further torture during tea-time (no reading at the table!) till AT LAST at last at last I could rush to our room and disappear into the words upon the page, the pictures in my mind, the feel of the paper the binding the smell the sheer bliss of BOOKS.
The saddest part of growing older is that I can no longer quite recapture that ecstasy, the exquisite thrill of worlds laid in store for me. "Fled is that music .. ?" Though even today, nothing quite compares to the feeling of walking down from the BCL with a bundle of books under my arm, knowing that the reading light in the car promises immediate consumnation of the truest deepest longest lasting most rewarding love affair.
Which brings us to the point of this reverie, if a reverie can have a point at all. The pleasure of finding kindred spirits who visit, inhabit, know the same constellations of magic worlds. And, if one is very fortunate, of visiting in the flesh the places I have inhabited myself in these waking dreams.
From a 4-week vacation across four countries, ten airports, six railway stations, fifteen reels of film, my fondest take-aways are five photographs. One of them shows a wall with "VR" upon it in pock-marks (a fit of patriotism in the Jubilee year, right, James?) and one is of me in an armchair, with a table in front upon which lie a bowler hat, a meerschaum pipe and a deer-stalker. A cigar for the one who can spot the one that doesn't belong there .. (think Basil Rathbone).
The tobacco was in a Persian slipper, the letters were pinned to the mantelpiece with a stiletto. The "VR" was a nice touch, but sadly enough there was no Bradshaw in the bookshelf and the Burke's Peerage was from 1902. An aberration, since he left those rooms in 1898 and retired to the Sussex Downs, where he penned his second recorded publication ("with some notes upon the Segregation of the Queen").
Or that perfect opening line, credited to a marginal scribble in a student's tutorial at Oxford, the door to a perfect make-believe long before J.K. Rowling. "In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit". On my top ten any day.
"Is it the perfume from a dress / that makes me so digress?" No, it is the fragrance of "that other world whose margin fades / for ever and for ever as I move"
The self-assured, sometimes self-important roll of the Beetle's lines - "he trod the ling like a buck in spring / And he looked like a lance in rest". If I ever visit Pakistan, it will be to see the cannon in front of the Jadoo Ghar and look for that old horse trader who appears in more stories than young Kimball's alone.
A digression for the enthusiast of the Great Game - Frederick Bailey, traveller, adventurer and secret agent for Her Majesty, spent years on the North-West Frontier and in Central Asia under assumed identities and often in disguise. The culmination of his career came when he was recruited in Tashkent by the agents of the Czar. His mission? To find and kill 'a notorious British agent named Bailey'!!
And of course that most idyllic world whose pleasures can never stale, where young men in spats descend upon a castle that "has impostors the way other houses have mice", where no page passes without a smile broadening into a totally delighted laugh, where long after "the Rudyards cease from kipling / and the Haggards ride no more", the stentorian voices of "aunt calling to aunt like mastodons in a primeval swamp" can still cause a frisson of unease to dance down the spine and yet all cares can be wiped away and the loose ends tied up by a Presence who "appears upon the scene" with a respectful cough and a perfect solution.
My favourite in the oeuvre, however (couldn't resist that one!), is the long languid person modeled upon Rupert D'Oyly Carte who can "take your dog for a walk" or "assassinate your aunt, crime not objected to", as long as it has nothing to do with fish!
Worlds worlds worlds - "if we had world enough and time .." "Would we not shatter it to bits, and then / remold it nearer to the heart's desire?"
Which brings me to another craftsman of a different genre, who led me to the pleasures of Old Omar through by-roads trod by whistling tramps and melancholic cow-punchers, who made it magic for me to walk the streets west of Broadway between 23rd and 42nd (known as? Hint - a culinary connection, so named because at the turn of the previous century it promised the juiciest cuts of graft) and who perfected the twist in the tale long before Bollywood and Channel V chanced upon it.
Bollywood reminds me of that master of the formula", author of over a hundred stories with essentially the same characters, six feet two in (their) stockinged feet and most times, when they caught a-hold of something, it moved.
Enough for one evening - this road goes ever on!
When we were very young, my grandfather would take my cousin and me to the British Council Library on Saturdays. It was then housed in an old colonial building on Theatre Road (now Shakespeare Sarani, a rare example of ideologues being witty) and we had to show our cards at the gate, stand in line at the counter to return our books and only then WALK FAST BUT DO NOT RUN to the staircase at the back, leading up to the Children's Section. Yes, there was a children's section then and for some years afterwards, before Margaret Thatcher, Lady Ironpants, Attila the Hen, a pox upon her, banished it to outer darkness on the pretext of cutting costs.
The keen thrill of anticipation I felt then surpasses every possible emotion - love ambition sex music food success, nothing can compare. Rushing sedately, if such an action is possible, up the two flights of the staircase to where the magic lay waiting in the shelves.
And then an hour of browsing, the pangs of having to CHOOSE just four books, if only I could take just one no three more, the patient short-listing for a final selection, inveigling my younger cousin into taking one for me on her card, yes I will give you my share of chocolate tomorrow (I must confess I usually welshed on that, I was a young glutton and no Pal you will NOT comment upon the choice of tense), the final selection and the sorrow of parting with the books I left behind on the table at the head of the stairs �
Refined torture on the journey (Such a long journey!) back, 'you will not read in the car, it's bad for your eyes' (edict writ in words of stone, he was a disciplinarian), the furtive peeks into the first few pages if I managed to get into the front seat before my cousin, further torture during tea-time (no reading at the table!) till AT LAST at last at last I could rush to our room and disappear into the words upon the page, the pictures in my mind, the feel of the paper the binding the smell the sheer bliss of BOOKS.
The saddest part of growing older is that I can no longer quite recapture that ecstasy, the exquisite thrill of worlds laid in store for me. "Fled is that music .. ?" Though even today, nothing quite compares to the feeling of walking down from the BCL with a bundle of books under my arm, knowing that the reading light in the car promises immediate consumnation of the truest deepest longest lasting most rewarding love affair.
Which brings us to the point of this reverie, if a reverie can have a point at all. The pleasure of finding kindred spirits who visit, inhabit, know the same constellations of magic worlds. And, if one is very fortunate, of visiting in the flesh the places I have inhabited myself in these waking dreams.
From a 4-week vacation across four countries, ten airports, six railway stations, fifteen reels of film, my fondest take-aways are five photographs. One of them shows a wall with "VR" upon it in pock-marks (a fit of patriotism in the Jubilee year, right, James?) and one is of me in an armchair, with a table in front upon which lie a bowler hat, a meerschaum pipe and a deer-stalker. A cigar for the one who can spot the one that doesn't belong there .. (think Basil Rathbone).
The tobacco was in a Persian slipper, the letters were pinned to the mantelpiece with a stiletto. The "VR" was a nice touch, but sadly enough there was no Bradshaw in the bookshelf and the Burke's Peerage was from 1902. An aberration, since he left those rooms in 1898 and retired to the Sussex Downs, where he penned his second recorded publication ("with some notes upon the Segregation of the Queen").
Or that perfect opening line, credited to a marginal scribble in a student's tutorial at Oxford, the door to a perfect make-believe long before J.K. Rowling. "In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit". On my top ten any day.
"Is it the perfume from a dress / that makes me so digress?" No, it is the fragrance of "that other world whose margin fades / for ever and for ever as I move"
The self-assured, sometimes self-important roll of the Beetle's lines - "he trod the ling like a buck in spring / And he looked like a lance in rest". If I ever visit Pakistan, it will be to see the cannon in front of the Jadoo Ghar and look for that old horse trader who appears in more stories than young Kimball's alone.
A digression for the enthusiast of the Great Game - Frederick Bailey, traveller, adventurer and secret agent for Her Majesty, spent years on the North-West Frontier and in Central Asia under assumed identities and often in disguise. The culmination of his career came when he was recruited in Tashkent by the agents of the Czar. His mission? To find and kill 'a notorious British agent named Bailey'!!
And of course that most idyllic world whose pleasures can never stale, where young men in spats descend upon a castle that "has impostors the way other houses have mice", where no page passes without a smile broadening into a totally delighted laugh, where long after "the Rudyards cease from kipling / and the Haggards ride no more", the stentorian voices of "aunt calling to aunt like mastodons in a primeval swamp" can still cause a frisson of unease to dance down the spine and yet all cares can be wiped away and the loose ends tied up by a Presence who "appears upon the scene" with a respectful cough and a perfect solution.
My favourite in the oeuvre, however (couldn't resist that one!), is the long languid person modeled upon Rupert D'Oyly Carte who can "take your dog for a walk" or "assassinate your aunt, crime not objected to", as long as it has nothing to do with fish!
Worlds worlds worlds - "if we had world enough and time .." "Would we not shatter it to bits, and then / remold it nearer to the heart's desire?"
Which brings me to another craftsman of a different genre, who led me to the pleasures of Old Omar through by-roads trod by whistling tramps and melancholic cow-punchers, who made it magic for me to walk the streets west of Broadway between 23rd and 42nd (known as? Hint - a culinary connection, so named because at the turn of the previous century it promised the juiciest cuts of graft) and who perfected the twist in the tale long before Bollywood and Channel V chanced upon it.
Bollywood reminds me of that master of the formula", author of over a hundred stories with essentially the same characters, six feet two in (their) stockinged feet and most times, when they caught a-hold of something, it moved.
Enough for one evening - this road goes ever on!
Starting Over
Don’t fill these empty spaces,
Leave them alone for the moment,
Close your eyes,
Seek comfort in nothingness,
Finding reassurance in Spartan starkness.
This clutter of disguised insecurities,
Sweep it all aside this instant,
Absorb the clarity,
Of this pristine space,
Reveling in a momentary state of grace.
Now swirl your paintbrushes,
In hues unseen, step away,
From a monochrome destiny,
And create a terpsichorean vision,
Of twirling, twinkling dancing passion.
No longer hesitant,
Nor afraid anymore, of new beginnings,
And life at its unrehearsed best,
Of leaping into the unknown abyss,
And taking final aim at everlasting bliss.
Leave them alone for the moment,
Close your eyes,
Seek comfort in nothingness,
Finding reassurance in Spartan starkness.
This clutter of disguised insecurities,
Sweep it all aside this instant,
Absorb the clarity,
Of this pristine space,
Reveling in a momentary state of grace.
Now swirl your paintbrushes,
In hues unseen, step away,
From a monochrome destiny,
And create a terpsichorean vision,
Of twirling, twinkling dancing passion.
No longer hesitant,
Nor afraid anymore, of new beginnings,
And life at its unrehearsed best,
Of leaping into the unknown abyss,
And taking final aim at everlasting bliss.
The Trivia of A Brooding Mind IV
It was just a face -
No more than a pattern -
An entity in space
Of many seen in a tavern
That waits its end
At the corner of a desolate street -
Morose, moribund -
Epitomizing mediocrity's defeat.
And though it reflected much,
It said nothing.
An average man's fate is such;
It's sealed before a morn begins.
Dan Husain
Copyright ©1993 Danish Husain
No more than a pattern -
An entity in space
Of many seen in a tavern
That waits its end
At the corner of a desolate street -
Morose, moribund -
Epitomizing mediocrity's defeat.
And though it reflected much,
It said nothing.
An average man's fate is such;
It's sealed before a morn begins.
Dan Husain
Copyright ©1993 Danish Husain
TWILIGHT
Lucky him
who can slumber
on a whim.
But some
must wait their number
till it come.
The hour slows
each second
that nears repose.
And I reckon
sleep by shades:
they beckon.
***
who can slumber
on a whim.
But some
must wait their number
till it come.
The hour slows
each second
that nears repose.
And I reckon
sleep by shades:
they beckon.
***
Nothingness....
Being nothing
emptiness personified
yet I am there
can you feel the space inside
It's growing and growing
the nothingness expands
the moon, the stars, all within me
as I explode inside whom I reside
Can you feel me
my being around you
the space, the nothingness is me
Tell me
do you even know
that I am within you!
emptiness personified
yet I am there
can you feel the space inside
It's growing and growing
the nothingness expands
the moon, the stars, all within me
as I explode inside whom I reside
Can you feel me
my being around you
the space, the nothingness is me
Tell me
do you even know
that I am within you!
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