Bangalore seems to be depressed.
All around there is so much slush and water and jams of mixed commuters.
Ah well, I'm not complaining.
I feel like I wrought it about someway.
So full of self-importance, I am.
Blues, stay away from me...
But no, what do I say instead?
Nothing actually, I played and played and played with my rainmaker and what happens?
(Darling, excuse me for this, but - ) When it rains it does pour.
And how foolish to think otherwise, I so hate being a fool.
It's okay if you are, then no one notices; but when you aren't and you are a fool, well that frankly is unpalatable.
At least to me.
So I'm enjoying my depression on depression and playing on with my rainmaker although now there really is no need.
It sounds the same within and without.
P.S. There is heavy stuff here for those with a literary bent of mind, I'm experimenting with stuff and well, do let me know what interpretations you draw. (If you want to of course, though why anyone would, is rather beyond me.)
Incidentally, I can't seem to find the font icon so no verdana today and I do so like verdana. Grief. Doubles. Trebles. Overflows.
The sea, it is always overflowing...