Time’s topsy turvy effect. Seated in a chair I think of her and the solitude of Tierra Del Fuego. Saint Anslem called me, dreams. I haven’t forgotten the ruckus, one in manytude. Admiration of Cycle ad-hocship. How many nights sleepless since grade five? Dreaming of Djibouti to express way Europe, the fog encapsulated Amsterdam. Each space has its own domain of truth. But in its abstract spatiality, they become one. Place as signification, it is many. Places dominate us, in its partial wholesomeness, the contextuality. Long queues of Burroughs. The domain of the heroine seller. Vomit stricken foils and who’s who of peddling world. Young blood rush for more. Police intervention, the places of absolution. Time reckoning past of myself more than the other. Sambit sold the books for a hit punch. Me too followed. Those places of Third Worldish Yankee Hippie tropes. We were both and none. I lampooned an old folk of anti-rabbit chase morality. Sambit mimicked the peddler. “Come close in a corner side.” With the turn of time, those gangs faded away for good. I discovered the history of personal. It is ratioized against the backdrop of world wholesomeness. Pre-history of my adulthood was sailorship, sailing away to distant lands. Adulthood brought a pack of hindrances. Time’s zoing. Pre and post of personal time are in a collaborative project. To sail away as fast as possible. Here people live in various time zones. Pujas and pandals. One time encapsulates the other, this not-in sync time proves to be more modern than ever. A certain anachronism rules. Backward movement of detouring proves more epithets, as a certain conjuration of modernity. Plus the thousand years of Asiatic boredom. Tinged with heroine and rickshaw puller’s half forgotten route to emerald. There are shitty technocrats. The national jingo celebrates the millions. While the other side fades by sailing. The rich also sails away. The scar proves ever same the downtrodden. Rich’s ellipsis. But the Calypso never fades. It is our foot to sail.