Being succumbs to the delivery of zonal essays. Senses perturbed by non-knowledge. Tagorian syndrome of afilial muddy local. Yet, the husky International. Beneath the sturdy grass field, the local resonates the sounds of Global. Next phase tea-dom. Merry go round the syndicate, who’s who admonisher. Hundred kilometre north point stays, but the changes are not obsolete. The local as the local of International. Being with-for-itself. The spaces connote past and denotes at the same time. Local dwindles around past being-with-in-itself in the conglomeration of being-for-itself. I too took the refugee asylum. I made a zonked appeal. Admonishers didn’t welcome. With her came friends and success. Life’s not so knowingly otherized syndicated syllabus banks. Locals the transformatory slavish ship. I too am sailor. Chandler of product hood. Being forget past in solemnity. Life never stood so first. I topped the boyish games. I, never a queer, to think through the body-crevasse. Crevasse, the syndrome of birth-rate ratio. Philistine take care of thyself. Myself not so a syndicated analytic hocus pocus. Life drained in money-making. Who’s who differs. I love to be through the zonk passed junk yard express. Being begets the otherhood through for-itself. In the same nerve plasmatic body. So the international. The difference admonishes between local and international. Retail subjectivity. Glances of galore. God-damn silly poets, Romeos, German shepherds and me, the not so lonely browny-kin. Local, local, whose you are ? The apathy of knowledge, sensibility stronghood. Live stickers. North point doesn’t agree. I faced the ghosts from US and Namibia. Must move to my base city in Europe. Or else, Calcutta. Beyond the tropical horizon, lays the infinite. Tropics in its infinite boredom. A good working knowledge category. Can one imagine a five thousand year old eventless boredom? What the fuck local! A whole galore of peopled civilization with candle light and match sticks. Praying for their own disappearance. But life moves to other domain. Each generation fulfils the earlier generational syncs. I made a clown of certain certitude. Why not me cherish the think tank bubble of global apotheosis. Who am I ? Not just a fig in the ship!