No true love coming from anywhere. Locked up in dark. The words are so shallow. Life seems so superficial. People are fake. How can soul be real. Songs have lost their meanings. Work piled up on table. I usually forget to turn off the night lamp. The friends are distant. The poetry is undone on last page. The last pages are diary. Sometimes like a corporate slave. Former pages with schedules and last pages with pain and emotions. I write to you. You were a wandering soul like me. I writes to you because I was alive with you. The third grade tea from chai stall settled us in the bottom of sea of life in that unwashed, microbe infected cup. Life was beautiful because we talked about the nonsense things. Non sense was important. Wasted my life in gaining my senses. And I write to you on every bill we gathered from restaurant and food courts. Because writing one liner was more worth then the amount payed on that bill. Yes, she treasured in her satchel. A best friend blessed me fikraaa. Without any fikr of jahan.
But I wrote only once a day. I write more than one time to few people. :)
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