Trespassers are welcome, down the scanty lanes of city. It is for the galore of a dark sea, which seduces mankind to the core. We want to forget the beneath. Beneath the great humdrum, located are the bylanes, the short cut, full with non-evolving man’s temperate amnesia. A crowd full of forgetfulness. The city, agog with non-existent pimps and whores. The empire of ants, shoving their daily bread. Life’s no mercy zone. The peddler peddles some rat syndrome dreams. Dreams of paranoia. All trespassers eat the junk alley’s of zoning metaphoric ancient sounds. We live through it. Being with for the ‘for-itself’, the toxic originary of death. Evolvement through sand and zones of diminished body empire. Bodies are sold for petty wages. Southern Globality, sold for none. International awaits. I saw a dreamy painting down the Moroccan street. No Swiss alpine here, only a few wages of mid-western heroism. Life likes to reckon the truth. A truthful of non-mercy. The ado of mapping past the syllogism. South as international. Blinkered hopes of Hirosima’s extinction. The soulful of gas chamber commerce beneath the veneer of daily earning wages. Little Buddha smiles with hope. His sighs of rainbow.  Estrangement of self, which abounds itself in its strangeness. Self as other, some detoxified stasis. High ended wilfulness. Scornful of waste baggage. My tryst with destiny showed a few more darkness. Dark zones of empire full of toxins. I played the truant. Two decades march past in its semblance of non-arty impoverishment. Capital rescued a few. Who’s who stand close to me now. I loved the being. Bread earners problem is now resolved. Wholly boredom. Fuck stricken assholery of ariatic partiality. Proving the difference above all. While I recount the calypso down Chandra Nath Chatterjee street. I became one with her. Her sole pride of praying and armoury of Philosophy honors. Philosophers disinterest respects the same in the other. I am not you, but the symptom of youness. The method expires in its for-itself situations of in-it self’s ad-hocship. High ended nothings are proven guilty. Loving erupts as the method’s only respite. 

Jeet Bhattacharya
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