Something about the environment has led me to wrap myself in my blanket and scribble, and the K.E.S.C has nothing to do with it. One thing I would readily claim to adore about winter is how under its influence the ceiling fans pause in the land of invisibility. Love the silence. If I listen harder and if the ticking stops, someone is audibly breathing in the next room. The moon has been neglected and tonight it only compelled me because of the chaandni that falls in my terrace resembling the chodween. My love for the moon is strange and I remain incapable of coming up with a reason for such an extreme interest that estranges me from others for they would never be pleased with the knowledge I have about the heavenly body. The devotion of my thoughts to it in their own odd way survives without an explanation. Perhaps it's the lack of scientific enthusiasm and only the curiosity beyond that drives me to think about it, think differently about it.
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