Stories I see,full..half..integral..incomplete, but stories. Perhaps no one can take those away. They are there always gliding in space. Preserve memories, foster them..burn them,ours they are..as true as death, b'ful part of us..death too sometimes. But can't be codified after an amount of time.
So many banyan trees around my house..'memory of mother'.I have no moon, no stars but there's this white hue. The clouds are gone..some clouds..more clouds..only clear white sky...Clear
I still have that dust of my hair..that rooted gap between words. Writing memories is easy, they can make a song, shows softened shores but brings a moment that doesn't pass all night long..life long. And sometimes the entire life passes in moments.
He is about to leave home to get those thousands of pages bound by a nearby stationary shop. Oh but! somebody's at the door ..not so rich , wants to make a film with him...on Alzheimer's patients
