My dearest Agha, August 18, 2005
I have devoured my day in the usual mantle of shorts and t-shirt. The myth of rising sun for many is a globe to advent on fresh vernacular of ideas and for some of us the stillness of night thriving thoughts on zenith of a belated bed time. I struggle to sum my sentences, arrange and rearrange my thoughts in appropriate drawers. I was winking and working till four in the proverbial limelight of bulb and books. Our refrigerator is loaded with bakery boxes and every now and then I plaudit my appetite with charcoal of percolating coffee and munch on crumbling biscuits underneath my carnivore edges of teeth. Often? Indeed. Free? Yes. I can hear the sweeper in a less distant place swiveling the thorns and thistles of his Indian buds. Music slowly skips one single from track to another. The CPU humming rotaries hesitatingly gusto cesspool of currents vibrating nuts and gadgetry. The plausible phone calls squeaking and trembling linchpin of emanated ideas. I took a momentary lofty stroll in my room and acutely observed mounted painting in front with the aloofness in look of birds staring art to each other and in that all avoid my any atrociousness to your picture beside. Just joking. I aimlessly noticed the lingerie behind curtain before window and recalled Mum’s every cost of advice and appropriateness to not strip our endeared windows completely. I felt like a complete Greek word “idiot” who does not hold any private office or public. We really console ourselves now and then moping on every talent and psychic phenomenon of friend and foe. Bilal is all rash but not shy on the white board probing his pontification and poetry on the word Math. I bet by now he really regrets me being here with all crash load of study avocations bobbing over his head. He will be indebted to my company and its very oddity one day and so will I. I am finally through and full proof from the green book and controvertible republican. But any book is always an unfinished business. I read few pages of Marrouchi and Eddy in frailty of early morning minutes. They seem to be very lucid and calculated writers. For now I am totally withdrawn with the finesse of font and book cover.
Your loving Son
Moody
Bilafond's Randomness 