The solid, isolated agony,

In a fridge, was carefully kept, hidden and frozen

In the morning, I was reading the papers

In the weather of 28 degrees

And time passed by, just like someone uttering nonsense

Some are jokes some are cries

There are some jokes I refuse to laugh at

There are other cries that I can’t pronounce

There are advertisements which bewitch the eyes

There is time that drowns our sensibilities

And I measure the depth of life, in illusionary dreams

The scene of someone making a call was featured on the TV

But the one I called was watching TV

What kind of logic is this?

What type of dialectics is argued?

Silence is louder than a morning market

There are more echoes than memories

The first person perspective can merely be icebound lies

The third person tastes like coffee

Phones tell lies

TV cooks up truth

Coffee wakes you up, and the fridge makes you composed

Ice cubes are solid

Ice were un-melted dreams

And you SMS me saying that you have got yet another dream

1 read through, deleting away some, discovering that

Some were your mythos, mostly were batiks

Was the coloured truth painted over and over one another?

Or the waxy lies waxed and lied layer by layer?

O we should know they are mostly somniloquy

That fabulous dream,

Everyone will remember, what everyone would choose not to remember:

What we have remembered,