R.E.M Diaries: II

She had never seen so many people together in one place since her childhood days when her Dad used to take her to 'Mela's' (Carnivals). She still remembered distinctly, the gigantic rides and coasters that she was always afraid of. She wasn't even fond of the comparatively smaller rides like the merry-go-rounds. She'd take them because the kids of the Verma's, and the Gandhi's, and the Chugh's, and the Makkar's always loved them; and she couldn't digest standing aside quivering alone while the others made the better of them, even as a kid. She loved the shops that sold ice-creams and candies that could only have been produced in dreamlands far far yonder, but she hated the fact that she couldn't have all of them at once so she'd ask for none. She remembered the enormous tents where wizards and magicians performed things that confounded her, like making money out of a garbage box, producing a bunch of flowers out of thin air and spilling water from a jug that never seemed to run out of it even without refilling. The tight-rope dancers, the heavily made up bozos and jesters, food from every corner of India and the world (at least every corner she knew then) and the cacophony of incalculable colors and people mystified her beyond description. She remembered vividly all the animals in the cages, roaring, pant-hooting and growling. The chimpanzees beat the floors and ceilings of their metal cages ferociously, and people teased them or enjoyed them squeal from a distance. Many threw peanuts and popcorn at the lions and tigers from a distance and laughed as they roared probably in disapproval. She also wasn't fond of the caged animals. They made her sad and uncomfortable for reasons that her puerile mind couldn't understand then. She wasn't too attracted to any of the individual segments per se, but she loved to hold her father's firm yet soft hand and gaze at everything like it was the last time she would get to look at it.

The place she found herself in right now was hauntingly similar in feeling to what she felt going to the carnivals when she was a child. There were multitudes of people crossing her every second, sometimes individually and sometimes in swarms, people of all races and ages. She was on a sidewalk; to her right were huge stores with items at display beyond a glass wall and to her left was at least a 200 ft. wide road, across which were equally huge stores alongside which ran a similar sidewalk full of similar people. The time would have been sometime around the dusk, because the LED's on billboards and the giant screens above had just started to show their true colors. But the sky was still blue and bright of sorts, coz the white cotton-ball clouds were still very much visible. She looked ahead as she walked in a state of semi-aware delirium, Tool's 'Schism' faintly playing in the background in one of the stores probably,  and saw 'Virgin' written on a huge billboard on the beautiful modern building in the middle of the road, and the road diverged into two roads from that point ahead.

"Hey!! Poouuurrrr!! Lookie here!" came a voice from somewhere. It was her father's. She turned around and saw him walking candidly through all the traffic towards her from across the road.

"Papa!" she exclaimed and started to cross the road towards him.

The traffic on the roads started to diminish mysteriously, just like the crowd. But she couldn't care less. She had found her purpose in all of the choas, even if it was horridly ephemeral.
He started to smile at her as he was joined by a myriad of familiar faces, friends, relatives, loved ones, some even lost and forgotten. They all smiled at her as they took the road to themselves, and she smiled back at them.

"Upar dekho", "Look", "In the sky! Look to the sky!" they started to shout.

She lifted her gaze slowly, and saw confetti and frills flying halfway in the air. Fliers of bright colors came falling down and thousands of balloons went up into the sky from absolutely nowhere. March music filled the air as everything else fell joyously silent. She was overjoyed and started to interview her inner self as to what she had done to deserve so. There were trails of meaningless colorful exhaust near the clouds that suddenly started to make sense; it was shaped like the letters of her name.

Amidst this implausible and utopic euphoria, anxiety silently came and took the empty middle seat in her brain and started to buzz like a drone feebly. She intended to ignore it, as always, even as it grew louder, as always, and hoped that it will disappear as it did always. But this time, it grew louder than it usually did, and everything else fell eerily silent. The smiles on the faces disappeared, and a discomfited look took its place. She was savoring the fact that all their eyes were fixed on her, but now she wished that they'd just look away.
She turned to her right and looked up in the sky, and there she saw it! Right in front of her eyes, at some distance but constantly growing closer, was a colossal battle aircraft. It was bigger and deadlier and more lustrous than any jet that she had ever seen on the television. It looked more like a flying submarine than a jet, and it had two pairs of wings which were hardly 1/5th the size of what its wings should have been.

As it grew closer, the noise grew louder. When it had reached exactly above the buildings opposite to her, the noise had become so uncomfortably loud that it broke all the glass doors and walls of all the stores. Pieces of glass blew out of the stores and flew in the air like arrows in an ancient battle field. The ground trembled, and the tremors seeped through the soles of her shoes and inside her veins and shook every cell in her body.
An automatic door below the plane opened and dropped a missile onto the crossroads of the street behind the one she stood at. She saw the bomb drop, and everything fell completely silent again. She didn't move an inch though she wanted to run. She saw monstrous orange flames emerge out of the point where the bomb fell. Time had switched into slow motion, so she could savor the tiniest details of this horror that ensued in front of her.
The flames started to propogate in all directions from that point and melted everything in their way into themselves. Everyone stood still in their spots, looking grim and dissatisfied, and their faces contorted like they were hollering curses at her. She saw the flames coming towards them as they kept their backs to it.

"RUN!!!! THEY'RE COMING FOR US ALL!!!" she shouted as loud as she could, but only a whimper managed to escape her oral cavity.

She watched the fire flood the street and devour everything in her sight. It sucked each one of these people into itself. She didn't run, and she didn't know why. It was coming for her now. She expected her heart to explode just about then, but on the contrary, a calm swept her over. She felt a rain of tranquility drench her and soothe her nerves. She looked around her one last time and said to herself, "This is not it. This is Times Square. I know it. What the fuck am I doing here?"
The flood of fire was ten feet away, and she could already feel the heat burning her skin, but she was calmer than ever.
"This is a dream. I know it. This can't kill me," she told herself as the fire grew closer.
When the flames came so close that they were only a couple of inches away from her nose, she uttered, "Deflect," and the flames deflected away from her and drained away sooner than they came.

She was back in the busy sidewalk, just where she had started. Her lips curled into a quirky smile and she got lost into the anonimity of the crowd.

R.E.M Diaries: I

"Sometimes... I, " the voice, slightly thicker than the usual female voice, paused for a while,  "... I wonder why I feel these conflicting extremities." 

"What do you mean?" replied a man's voice that almost sounded like a boy's. It was soft and melodious yet it thickened into a persuasive, intelligent baritone at times.

"I don't know.. I can't explain this paradox." The sun was halfway below the skyline, behind a million little houses and buildings that looked like blocks scattered unevenly on the ground far below. "I feel like I am the perpetrator and the helpless victim of every atrocity happening to any random person on this planet, especially myself."

"Just be happy... We should be. YOU should be. 'Coz you're beautiful. But that doesn't mean you get to bogus the damn joint!" 

Laughter echoed faintly in her ears. She could see smoke, and the burnt orange twilight shining along the boundaries of tens of consecutive small domes through that smoke.The sky was slightly cloudy, and someone seemed to have artistically spilled a bucketful of purple all over it. It was the roof-top of some deserted medieval building, an old mosque presumably. She couldn't see the faces of the two voices talking. She tried hard to, but she started to lose focus as a boqeh of lights coming from the windows of the distant houses spread in front of her eyes like the back of her eyelids. 

A silent, momentary, blurry pause.

Then all of a sudden, her ears started to echo with long, not-particularly loud, ferocious and upsetting arguments between two people. She recognized the two voices; his was still melodious and hers still unbefitting.

"Why the fuck don't you get it? What part of it is tripping you out?" he said frantically but without stooping   an inch.

She couldn't see his face for her eyes couldn't see above his neck no matter how hard she tried. She was seated in a perfect cubical room, with un-besmirched white walls for as far as she could see, though she could only see hazily. There were no windows, and the only door was on a distant corner far behind the inflated chest of his glorious figure standing 7 feet away.  A silence replied. 

She felt her breath getting harder because of lack of air. She jumped out of whatever she sat on and ran for the distant door, as the door ran farther away from her. She was sure she'd get to the door if she kept running, and especially if she ran fast enough. But she tripped, her body momentarily in the air and then a painful thud.

"Trrriiinnnnnnn Trrriiiinnnnnnn"

A loud and digital ring of a phone echoed through the length between her ears. She stood up and followed the sound through a dark alley into a dark room. There were two figures presumably asleep on two separate beds placed carefully along two sides of the room and a third bed, placed in similar fashion along a third wall of the same room, was unmade and empty. The sound of the ringing was loudest in this room. In the darkness, she saw something twinkling beneath the sheets of the unmade bed. It was a cellular phone, flashing some numbers and a name.

"Hello?" she said, imitating the voice of the female she had been hearing.

"I'm sorry... I really am. I've been thinking about it and I'm sorry. How can I be mad at you when you're so beautiful?" said the same male voice from across the phone, only sounding digital this time, but melodious nonetheless. 

"Who are you?" she tried to say but before she could, she heard her laughter on the phone. Her face contorted into discomforting curves as it grew pale of bewilderment. A drop of sweat swept down behind her ear. She was connected to a con-call through the fibers of the fabric of time.

"I couldn't live without you.. " he said, with an added affectionate chuckle.

"I know... Me neither.. " she heard her smiling voice again in the phone's speaker, without having moved her lips or uttered a word.

Her ears were filled with laughter again, that faded into a white noise that cleared itself into a distinct, trivial chatter between two young females.
 "GET UP YOU BUM!" said one of them.

She slowly opened her eyelids, letting in a tsunami of bright and painful light into her eyes. She was in her room, amidst erratic strolling of her two roommates, now waking up in her make-do bed and rubbing her eyes as she got up.

"What time is it?" she uttered in gibberish, still only half awake from her sound, dreamless slumber. 

Oh, that one?

The trends pass him by
but he doesn't bat an eye;
Like a dead pig in his sty,
he's scared to step outside
And walks along the sides
the shame he calls his stride.
He gets stuck around the bends,
the one with no real friends
Refuses to make amends.
His voice shakes, he's not bold
He sweats a sweat so cold
And he does not what he's told.
His ends fight hard to meet
He'll sweep you off your feet
with lies bittersweet
that he soaks in finest wines
and sugars that sound divine,
The self righteous swine. 
He's fickle, he's a shame
And he always tends to blame
He's different, still the same. 
One of phony creepy men,
a treacherous scheming hen
And you never know when
He'll fiendishly change
Not dexterous, but deranged
Unpredictable and strange.
A lying, verbose tongue
Of a villain unsung;
On his blunders he is hung.
A fool to play with dice, 
A coward, but thinks otherwise
A junkie, a stale surprise.
Too twisted in his ways
He means not what he says
and he says not what he prays. 
A banal, boorish guy,
Like a needle in the eye,
You'd better leave him die.

Note 5.

There were about a thousand horns blaring at the same time, from vehicles of all shapes and sizes hurrying, scurrying and struggling as they crossed her. The wind was so hot that it seemed as if it were blowing straight out from an oven, and the sun was lousily busy sucking every last droplet of water out of her body. 

 The busy Delhi road, like every other Delhi other road, was alive with all forms of animate and inanimate life, like a swarm of drugged bees that buzz hysterically and hover in all directions chaotically. People walked past her with a frenzied calmness as she walked past them in a calm frenzy. She was approaching the bus stop on her way, which was always crowded with eager eyes waiting for the right bus to come. It makes it easy in such places if you know where you have to go, when you can even change buses for a longer journey which will eventually get you to your destination. The thought made her feel a little out of place.

She took a prolonged look at the anxious countenances as she walked past the bus stop, when something like the sound of heavy thunder startled her and shook her out of her daydream. A bus, a giant green growling beast, drove right past her, almost brushing against her right shoulder. She froze in her spot, as she felt a shock traversing through her nerves. Her heart was leaping, her breath was racing, while she was was stuck motionless in her spot. Her eyes were heavy from the stoning, yet open wide, causing extra strain on her head. A group of youngsters, which had till now been dawdling back and forth a certain length of the sidewalk, broke into a chain reaction of giggles as they took turns in staring right into her eyes for 5 seconds each.

The horror of that moment was grimly laughed over by the bus driver as the bus's rear farted out an extremely hot gush of exhaust in her face. Gathering herself again, she took a deep breath and jay-walked to the other side of the road. Her face had started to counter the temporary bleaching action of the incident as she turned her head towards the bus stop before entering the honey-comb maze of the 'mohalla'. Everyone was waiting. Most of us are always waiting, just like all of us, she thought and walked on.

Note 4.

So it was just another one of those days, getting low, then getting high by getting high. Randy Blythe blared electrically through the ceiling fan still, for laziness had personally asked them to delay calling the electrician to fix it. She, in particular, felt obliged in not getting it fixed. Because being obliged is one of those phrases of the English language which have two genuine, completely contrasting definitions. When she felt obliged, chances are that she might not really have been obliged at all. 

She didn't particularly like going out too much now, especially after the episodes became frequent. She was particularly afraid of the evenings and the nights outside, because those triggered her "episodes" even more. She liked the wind in her face, but the traffic was maddening. Literally maddening. 

The first time she saw her, she wore a pink worn-out Saree with faded purple grapevines printed on it that now looked like dead branches that hadn't been watered for at least 30 years. She must have been in her early fifties, but she looked eighty years of age. The wrinkles on her face were carved carelessly and in a hurry, and her face was unevenly sunken from both sides. The measly layer of skin on her arms was dark as ebony from the lack of sunscreen lotion, and an air conditioned cabin, or of empathy, all or none of these. But you could tell that her face was still bright, from the glimpses you stole from beneath her pallu covering her head and clutched between her teeth from one side. 'Amma', as she was known, smiled at her through her half-clad face. Now that she had finally stepped out from her shack after a long time, she decided to walk over to Amma's little establishment on the sidewalk.

"Bohot time ho gaya gudiya, tumhe dekhe," Amma said to her with a suppressed child-like laughter, that burst out in weary chuckles between her sentences. "Kahaan rehti ho aajkal?" Amma inquired with an affectionate smile, her eyes gleaming like a mug full of sparkling, freshly poured beer.

She didn't know what to make of Amma's question, one of the apparently simple ones but the most hard to answer. What do you tell someone when they ask you where you've been all this time? Do you tell them a detailed account of all the places that you've been going in and coming out of? Would they really stand and wait to listen all of it? And even if they do, do they really give any tiny speck of fuck? So, realizing the sheer futility, after thinking for a few seconds sometimes and sometimes just shooting right out with it, you say, "bas, yahin kahin. Idhar udhar..."

Then, the psycho-actives took the better part of her. You know, how they make you paranoid, and helpless in controlling and managing the million thoughts shooting through your neurons like forest fires. What did Amma really mean? Was she trying to tell her something? Because really, where had she been all this while? Should she describe the dark tunnel she has been mentally living in, with its scurrying rats and despicable creeping insects? She didn't know. It was as if eons had ended within a fraction of a second. 

She stood gaping at Amma's stack of fresh but dead vegetables, each covered with a million little water droplets and lying in perfect symmetry on a bed of moist gunny bags on the sidewalk.

"Busy rehte hain Amma... time hi kahaan aaj kal..." she spoke after a while, in utter detachment. 

She realized that she had forgotten why she had come out that day. She fell silent again, and a befuddled and delusional look spread all over her face as she froze in her spot again. 

Note 3.

You won't hear it coming round

and that's part of the big plan;

A silent heavy truck,

or a reckless speeding van.

Just hear me out, okay?

and also just turn blind;

Keep your eyes fixed straight ahead

coz it'll hit you from behind.

And you know I'm here

for your rescue dear

but you know I've gotta hide,

I'm not scared or shit

but I just can't leave

with a lacerated pride.

I'm back on my feet again 

and its business that I mean,

I've got anti-septic speech

and a badass love machine.

Now I'm back here just for you

and you better be back too,

to play games on the road again,

the ones I ask you to.

And I'll just be here

for your rescue dear

oh, unless I've gotta run.

But keep your tail just

between your legs

coz it's always so much fun..

..to watch you disengage

and watch you swell with rage.

to watch you disengage

and watch you swell with rage.

Note 2.

The buzzing of the fan had been driving her nuts. When it was at it's lowest speed, you could mistake it for the sound of a grinder coming from the neighbor's house . At its fastest, it almost sounded like a truck revving inside your room. She, in particular, wasn't sure if it was really as loud as she thought. She, in particular, was not even sure if she really did believe anything in general. Fan or no fan, the humming and the buzzing was persistent. It was as if a mosquito had seen the dark at the end of her ear-tunnel and managed to crawl into the meanderings of her inner ear. It buzzed and flapped and writhed intermittently, but consistently. The mosquito was trapped inside of her. Or was she trapped inside of a mosquito? Nevertheless, it was unanimously decided that the fan needed a-fixing.

Note.

It was a couple of hours before the noon on a Sunday. It was like any other bourgeois Sunday, filled with the smell of the Indian middle class, in particular, that one readily gets used to. There were laughters and naggings from the neighbourhood, a closely huddled universe of adjoining houses and lanes. The Sharmas, owing to the extra-ordinary amplitude that god had apparently blessed them with, were bickering as usual about the crisis that three lanes of the 'mohalla' now knew by heart. There was buzzing of seemingly a dozen thousand washing machines in the background, and sometimes the short-lived continuous beating of the bat on a cloth being washed. She could smell parathas and chai from every direction, a familiar smell that now was almost indistinguishable from normal air. All of this, all of these mundane rituals, she knew by rote. 

She stood in her balcony gazing at the giant mesh of cables and wires at the end of the street, tied on a pole that leaned dangerously on one side of the road. It was like a small colony of invertebrates, spreading in straight black serpentine lines in the middle of the air. Khemu, the newspaper guy, was delivering newspaper by hand today. He looked odd, because she could never imagine Khemu and not see him riding the symbol of the common man, his black Hero bicycle. Maybe the roughness of the road got to it, or maybe someone stole it from him. The day seemed to have become so much longer for him. She looked at the old green wrist watch she's been wearing for as long as she could remember, and something seemed to bother her so much that for a fraction of a moment she thought her spine froze but time had started to move so fast. In that fraction of a moment, a straight gush of wind broke her brittle skeletal structure and its pieces just seemed to scatter all over the floor. She did not know what sent that chill in her nerves, making the sparse hair on her un-waxed arm stand erect in the fright of that moment that seemed to linger on for an eternity. The fleeting horror made her realize that time was moving too fast and she wasn't. She doubted if she was moving at all.

The ticking of the lousy blue seconds hand became as audible as Mrs. Sharma's rants on her mother-in-law. Not just audible, she could see time running away beneath the scratched round glass of the flowery green dial. It was 15 years ago that her father had bought her the wrist watch from the little shop under the tree, and yet it felt like it was just yesterday. 

Time was moving too fast. 

Random Mindfuck 3

The flytrap's is the way of life

We're cashing in on our own strife

for surely must the candle burn

and we must too, when ours is the turn

and ours, indeed, too often comes

when one won't move and the other runs

It hits us when we're most unnerved

and fairness, though, is seldom served

for our fears dress in linen whims

embroidered with the holy hymns

and monstrous in the dark become

heard by none, and seen by none

Then where to must the fawn elope

from beasts of prey and hurtful hope?

and what becomes of the righteous deeds

if one must bite the hand that feeds?

For questions or for indemnity,

the tale must serve but one of these.

A Sore Loser

There's skeletons up your closet

and empty fills my pockets

You're fighting woes with bare hands

and I am steady shifting stands.

I am trying to find

our closure

and maybe you are too.

And I'm throwing away 

your memoria

but its just so hard to do.

I'm throwing the withered flower

and many an unsent letter

and I hope this serves me good

and I hope it serves you better

Living in a Glass House

There must be something, I wonder

about that tone..

of broken shards

resonating in an empty room.

Like loading muskets

in a sandy expanse

of a lifeless desert.

Like a song full of metaphors

that makes it impossible to judge

just who is to blame.

Like, like the roaring of thunder

on one of those days

when it doesn't rain at all.

Like fleeting compassion

aroused by a narrative

of a mute roadside visage.

Like a photograph,

framed on the wall,

covered with dust.

Like a broken clock,

at least a decade old,

lying in one of the drawers.

Like an assurance that you have more time

if you turn the dial

so that your watch is ten minutes ahead.

Futility is in a feud

trying to fight away itself..

Impasse

I bite the hook for little vermin

that you stuck out as bait,

I slowly creep into the rat-trap

while patiently you wait.

You drag me helpless all along,

I bleed, and I leave marks

But you wipe your floor as clean as new

then feed me to the sharks.

But little by little

your limbs turn brittle,

coz nothing's worth a dime.

So you give up all

and watch me crawl,

but you die a little every time.

So that's the plot of our tragic story,

the drama that's for none to see

And if at all we were to show,

they'd pass it for a comedy.

So you drag me out into the daylight

and leave me on the road,

I'm run down by the speeding cars

while you still bear your load.

But little by little

your limbs turn brittle

and you crumble to the ground,

And you give up all

to watch me crawl

but never make a sound.

23.07.2011

Moony whispered in my ear, but I don't know what he said

then Peachy shook me up and said, "We're only in your head"

Random Mindfuck 2

Yeah, I'll take some ketchup too

while I check my hair in the reflection on your desk

I have to reach where I must reach

but I mustn't look like I'm in a hurry

I must walk on the left side

and I must always leave the road for the cars

The watch is pacing like it's in a hurry too.

I must stand behind the lines

and wait for my turn to grab someone else's turn

I must get in the door before it beeps 3 times

and I must do something with my time

like, go to church, or make some money.

Goose Blues

Well you toss me 'round your little world

every time its your turn to play.

You'd cling to me for sweet dreams

now you gave me, in a box, away.

Not your favorite toy?

or the greatest joy?

anymore..

We're playing by your rules but 

you think I'm always dealt the better hand.

This ain't meant to be a card game,

but you could never understand.

Or do you love the chase?

and the poker face?

well I don't.

Random Mindfuck

You know all the rules and you're nobody's fool

You've read all the books only to find out that none made sense.

You know how it works, you've the grins and the smirks

and You know just when to jump while I tumble between the bends.

I'm tired already, of being the cookie with your tea

and of cleaning all the medals on your wall.

I guess it's just rough, when nothing's good enough

for you when you just know it all. 

The red-painted Blues

The techno hangover, the morning blues

the same old coffee with the same old news

The senate in discourse, the repubs, the democrats

the life insurance agents and the new high rise flats

the distressed starlets, the drama queens

the delinquents, the junkies, the pregnant teens

the wide screen tv, the new ferrari wheels

the mansion on sale, the business deals

the Gooks, the whites, the blacks and the brown 

the hot beach tv guys, the new chick in town 

the evangelical priests, the holy and the sane

the infidels, the blasphemers, the demigods and the vain 

The gym-regime, the Mcdonalds fries

the little black dress, the perfect zero size

the scoundrels in the government, the slick president grin

the fake little greenhouse, the tempting salesman spin

The esspresso on the go, the scrawny colleague,

the blood-sucking boss and the boss's league

the late night shifts, the aching head

get up from bed, and go back to bed

the banal bedlam, the filthy rat race

the riots, the corporations, the glossy TV-face

It all gets me so down, all the year round

the innate din, the bustling sounds

Then your love comes to my rescue, from the star-lit skies

like satin drapers upon my tired eyes.. 

A Travesty

From a river you regress,

and like a fountain, you dress,

and settle for less,

for people to stare, in awe of the mold

and pass along, once the story's told.

Its amusing how you choose,

to mix your purpose with your blues,

your fears for your muse,

as you sketch your song, a mile long

on your withered knees, feeling strong.

You watch as the morning dawns,

On your garden floors, the sunlight spawns,

You panic and cage the prancing fawns;

their strides accused of  hubbub a lot,

The black kettle mocked again by the pot.

The Shore After the Storm

Serenity of the calm waters

reticent about the storms;

An aftermath, concealed.

Trapped vim and life

breaks out in waves sometimes,

breaks at the rocks. Silenced.

The Bourdon horn of a distant ship,

Like the muffled moan of my heart,

Fades into the endless.

Tides that kiss the feet of the shores

fall back to rise again,

seeking forgiveness, since forever.

Sands that yield to the footsteps,

yet hold no drop of sweat;

footsteps made, and washed away.

The ferry, vivacious and hasty,

sails faster on the current;

The forsaken island, unnoticed.

The Merchant

Muster my strength, after myriads of failed tries,

Wings that flutter for their share of blue skies,

Would my deepest sorrows serve for the bribe?

With a faint memoir of our tryst and the misinterpreted lies,

my yearning eyes longed upon your empathy's prize;

I merely hold the pen, whilst you be the scribe.

My anguish and delinquency were the vigor for your vies,

My penchant adding hues to your evasive disguise;

Like a thunder cloud I pour, like sand you imbibe.

Oftentimes, our actions become what we despise;

Shipwrecked, and deserted, when our braces capsize,

Struggling, so I stood, amidst arsenals of gibe.

The truth lies in what is overlooked by the eyes,

The pageantries of the night lose the splendor in sunrise;

Thence, can you sieve the pain from the continuum of my describe?