I have been thinking lately. There's green in the trees. You know. A beautiful rich kind of green. And there's a terrible ash of brown, slowly encircling all that glorious green. There's a slow steady pulse. There's nice things sacred things. They dance. There's city lights at night. There's skylines and uncharged cameras. There's much loss of beauty. Still. There's a pulse.
The other day I was caught ticketless. They dug a whole trench in my pocket. And I forfeited two days of brilliant dining, just to get back to budget. I was sad. I could see the brown slowly circling in. I was not sad for it. I was sad because I could also see a brown slowly spiralling out. My leaf has been turned over too many times. Both sides's dabbled black and brown. No place left to write. Shall then I stop writing? Shall I lay down my crazy ash pen and turn the leaf over twice and thrice and fling it away? Does the monkey like his tail? Does the dog like his yelp? Does the Green Lantern like Hawkgirl? And many more such questions still unanswered, shall I then let my leaf fall?
I love asking stupid questions I already know the answers to. Just to see your 'Aww, poor pussy cat' smile. And so. Moonface. Here's my leaf, one more time. See the little corner there. Still green. I shall write on it. And you must smile.

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