Mumbai might as well be Mars. Come home you little space ranger.

what i want is white. pure. weightless. airy in its freedom.
what i need is black. deep. dark. certain in its all consuming oblivion.
this grey sweater i'm wearing is beginning to itch. i might just rather the cold.

dear xanga I wake up early to watch the world wake through a second story window. jam my finger propping the window open half a handspan, but for this daybreak it's a small price to pay.

dawn lights the cold morning. not a biting bitter cold. nor the brusque cold of central air so stiff it may as well be starched and ironed. i'm talking the crisp cool of innocence. kinda like the cool of a blank sheet of paper or a virgin weblog entry box.

i inhale deeply. savoring each breathe. life holds such promise at 6AM.