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On a humid August day on one of Kolkata's many flat roofs, I listened to the traffic below. Looking at the outskirts of the city, it seemed like the only concrete island among thousands of concrete islands stretched across the horizon. There was a sound ocean around me. As thousands of people crossed the city's concrete sidewalks, curved cars wandered at the scene. This artificial friction sometimes produces a sonic canvas of different sounds, sometimes played with a wall wall or a rhythmic metal ring.

While competing for the best dishes and best rivets, hiding in the market was almost marvelous, with top screams, shouts and songs of various crows, carols and manna. This medium-sized conversation resulted in an increase in the speed of the deep seat, which could be felt until vehicles and unmanned aircraft could be heard. Evening prayer was overturned as it stood in the midst of the crash of a thousand worlds. Rich drums and shaking yards frame the following sounds. I realized that I was listening to an allegorical composition, not a city religion. Each sonic layer was implemented. The rhythmic flow flowed over drones and sound tissues. Unexpected events took the form of a piece, and sticking together was a brilliant melody.

More!

The beach washed over me and as I stood, cloying membrane of past passing over me, along the ridge to settle on the rim of the razors edge. White tips, each a flower with frothing sphere, spoke of truth and memory, half worrying and half not. Still, with purpose, the air pulled fragrance soft, mellow with blunted and cutting hearts, aloft with cold and speed. I was suddenly aware.

Evening prayer was overturned as it stood in the midst of the crash of a thousand worlds.

The shadow of a man in the sky
cloud, black and white
ringed, a sun pale of white satin sheen
faint fresh hay, just cut
shrieks of laughter, running by
hills rolling on way to distant land
silent deaf and blackened blind
evening prayer was overturned as it stood in the midst,
of the crash of a thousand worlds
never wittingly admitted
each less than before.

May we have some more, please Sir?

OK, I will get to work. (Although I should warn you that when the process becomes more work than play, I do end up abandoning the project at hand and trashing my incomplete or unsuccessful efforts. So producing something new can take some time.)

And thank you for your contributions, c_d!

(Although I should warn you that when the process becomes more work than play, I do end up abandoning the project at hand and trashing my incomplete or unsuccessful efforts. So producing something new can take some time.)

I totally understand that.

In cases where that happens (which is by no means unusual), one can but wait for The Muse to bless, again. I rather like The Muse. The Muse that looks after me is definitely feminine. She's kind, but sometimes a bit bossy. I'm convinced she likes to make me feel guilting when I'm not outputting.

Doesn't she realise that the resting period in between is essential?