Book

At the night’s end is our own book of what we have printed all along ,a certain recorded history in pages that lie buried in collective memory.

Memory is a little wiggling thing in creatures of future skies made of acerbic acid of little shape, a rogue tongue wagging little hope, with a rasping sarcasm where it curls.

Our book is not in papyrus of river but an electric thought streaming through myriad acid rivers of time flowing relentlessly to grand irony.