We cramped half of lives in half hour hastily; and everything difficult popped out in no time. ‘I lost the blue painting, ‘out in cold in Toronto’’. He said ‘I will paint you another one.’ Then both of us queried ‘did you ever get to doing good?’ Long pauses of mumblings, half there. Then he asked ‘Where is the book?’; and soul got pinned to the bricks behind me.
Thought this is like Marquez’s hundred years of solitude coming in full circle. Too long to explain why.