Stigma of being at home on the street! Being with for the other. Otherized zones are compensated for a thriving minute or two, onlookers. Street galore are remembrance of unadulterated toto company. With a bit of jostling, one wins the race. Camus faced gymnastic trigonometry are the solution, self company. Authors watch the deceased street from a height. The manyness of boredom. Streets don’t sell boredom but the forgery of selfsame other. The human decay and nowhere man, aimless to the core, oh my city, how shall I regret of not knowing you, solely. Apocalypses of the street are vindictive. They are gaywatchers, the hoodlums, pick pockets, vendors! Street presents us with the locus of whole, in-itself to the core. It is spatial. The place is agog in-itself, the epic of the street. The vendors make small tributary like bifurcating stories, while the jurisprudence redeems the part of wholesome epic. Subsequently the armed men invoke stale boredom of modernity! The staging of statecraft, mellow messianicity of begger’s opera. Finitude in rhythm.
Hyphenated being watch the costly armour, window shopping. A moment or two, cheap distance from the other. One bifurcates, sillydom of showy modern. Phenomena of the globe. Distinct zone for the apocalyptic hitch hiker’s addiction. Draft cheque is not of use. No reason for the gallery show of buying. Stop overs are erected by. The landmarks, whose who sells the poison, drugs. You know his whereabouts. New detourment begins. Time evolves slowly now. The monstrous eucalyptus. Perception slows down, time becomes larger. Deceased self methinks of all erstwhile defeats. Too far to recognize the loss. Deeply penetrative eyes, gayness soon gone. Street represents the jovial crowd from distant past. One twists and turn and move, simple questions for the sweet lifeless form! No one listens to the town man’s call. The mechanic in me resembles the machine, my dutiful walking, at a distance. Who calls me now? I notice the poster of a movie show. Simplistic He-man. The evening go-getter in me recalls sweet home. Return I must.
I am indebted to Uddalak Bose for this article.