The sky must fall down soon. Else it will rain here, and I scarcely have any space for myself to let it rain.
Love is in the air.
There’s tonnes of steel left to sell. All the fire that was there went out. How will I melt them, and let them flow to the buyer?
A phone with a cracked bone.
The new, shiny laptop awaiting Kernel 4.10. A malt based drink did not help it much.
The eagle, the other day, was gossiping to the sky, and said,”That boy, you see – thinks we are gossiping about him!”
Grapes must be the fruit of the kings. It’s easier to throw them than guavas.
Happiness is sneezing.
The world is sick and tired of me. I must burn the earth, said the sun.
I stink. Said the waters.
Love is sinking in the water.
Love is in the malt-based drinks too.
Beef, fish or paneer fry?
Flavoured houseflies flies around the files.
Pricey by choice.
Must. Get. Back. To. Work.
(The language is called gibberish. Wonder what force in the nature made you read till here.)