Might be the pitter patter, one certain monsoon noon, smoking the old wooden windows’ glasses, or may be the alphabets, smeared and eaten away a bit by bugs or moth, of the book kept as decor. Who am I?
Might be the light of the cell phone on the wall or the headboard blurred, or may be I’m just a chime that you wish to hear always. What am I?
Thousand of years have passed as I turn a pebble of the Milky Way on some balmy summer night sky-path or is it just me when I define myself through one of the alter egos I carry inside me, around me.