“This house is a broken Louvre.” It’s a quiet Sunday afternoon. Sunday is a prelude to the blues that Monday will bring. As you grow up, Sundays stop feeling like one. It’s a puddle of thoughts, anxieties, what ifs and whatnots. The mind flutters. The word fluttering has an essence of stringing a kite. The wind navigates the direction and temperament of the act of fluttering. You hurt your fingers...
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