From Writer's Desk

I dream of hard wooden surface, lying abandoned in the evening of solace, chair of adjustable height, higher when elate, and lower when desolate. I also dream of an eve, where sun is at brim of his age, where night is still an unborn sage, whose light is just apt to be described, but till then I will be enough mesmerized. There is more unuttered part of regime, building up a room having white painted beams, light blue walls, and ceiling of cream, Through curtains of netted and fibered satin, breeze slowly swaying within. Pens in number with different skins, calligraphy with fuchsia pink, writing for nature in shamrock green, philanthropic thoughts in red, and the special romantic verses, curled in mauve and cupid pink.