There is a crack on the great bowl of grey above. The uncountable drops which seep through, drown the bitumen veins of a nation, lick the green tongues of jubilant vegetation and splotch remaning earth; quenching a thirst. It is the evening, crawling towards twillight, while the last slips of my boyhood draw away I listen to the radio clashing in the sound of the pitter-patter with slender fingers gracing piano keys. As I sit on the unlit veranda, someone patches the leak and patiently the drops clear, all that is left is drained away. Soon, twillight will pass, then even much less sooner, night will arrive drawn by a single silver orb. I try hard to peel off the expiry tab labeled on me in vain. Already, visages from dark places visit me, there will be no new dawn for me, I know. So quickly, this life is spent. I put down my pen and while waiting for the great bowl to paint itself black and throw out its shimmering carpet, I try even harder to hum along to slender fingers gracing piano keys.

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