We would point with index finger at the face, the face that fell silent in a room of faces.Cane chairs were all that were to be pulled but there seemed no music of the chairs that was playing ,only some more silence.
Face is not the index of the mind, its index being at the tips of eyes, where words had froze at some point of time before chairs moved from place to place.
We now sit and gawk in wonder at the face in wonder at a running face that once was, with eyes blinking behind glasses from life. We wonder at the life in the eyeballs of glass its tender ego lurking in them as wet proof of life , of animated love and responsibility
for life’s events, under illusions of control.
Our anxious chairs made no noises of faces. Their light movement betrayed no emotion,only fear of index fingers stopping to point at the immobile face , bursting with the past.
The Morning is Just a Dream 
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