The house is empty, like after a robbery. There’s some random, melancholy music playing on my laptop. I’m figuring out i-tunes finally.

I’m thinking about what a genius you were at 20, the same time I was 20, and not quite all there.

I guess I am a little jealous.

I am stuck here, with my borrowed wisdom and mediocre talents. And double fucking chin.

And you…you are not.

Calcutta is getting wintry. It’ll soon be time for Nivea and oranges. And more tea and cigarettes.

I am afraid of sticking to memories like cling film. And becoming fungusy and smelly. I am afraid of getting stuck. To people, to places, to a conversation, to a fantasy, to a deeply saddening thought, to the A minor chord.

What are you doing now? Do I pop up sometimes in your memories? Do I say hello? Do you remember my name?

I miss being funny. Maybe it’s the music I listen to now.