Breathing in the radio through its sound box, everything seems to be burning.

Wet it with tears and kiss it over and over again.

Listening to those mushy love songs in a full moon
sweaty summer night, during those long power cuts,
as the west wind blows through the small window

- It tastes steamed and salty.

A radio is a silent listener, without any whine.

It gets tender as this radio station is a distant hill station.

The Saturday winds are peculiarly painful – I don’t know why?

Well, may be because it brings along sad stories of uncovered skin, covered with riches, wine- wet silk and trustless sperm from some distant west where the sun never sets.

All deceiving smells, surely. There's a party in my room tonight. It’s quite noisy in here. Some weird sounds trespass –

Obscure noises from some distant island-some crap. But I still listen.

For it is some kind of a company.

It’s New Year’s Eve, you know.

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