In the corner of the screen, it gets sold off.
Countless fluids (oils) slide across the circuitry's night.
It would be easier to just decide,
Yet I linger in the coolness of indecision, polishing the pipes today once more.
There are no shadows in Sargam's desert.
Neither 'being' nor 'non-being',
Only half-baked fragrances evaporate,
Blending into the dry hum of cooling fans.
Who ever promised a completion?
Real or code, merely passing platforms of makeshift shores.
At the bottom of this half-finished suspense,
A nameless joy bubbles up,
Without a trace of viscosity.
pantaloon
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