It feels like it's been ages since I woke up this morning. The day stretched itself like a distasteful bubblegum, that you chew despite. I spent the day sleeping, as much as I could, praying that I wake up only to my mother's embrace or my father's concern. I didn't want it to rain while I was outside with my father for a scooty ride. But it did. I sat firmly on our white Activa while father went to buy homeopathic medicine and watched the rain stain the concrete of the road with angry raindrops, like a ruthless bout of chickenpox that grips a sulking teenager. Soon, the rain had claimed everything and the roads couldn't fight back. Here I am, on a Saturday night, having accomplished next to nothing throughout the day, looking at my hands. I wonder difficult it is to make our hands do different things. You know, like how you can't draw circles with one and rectangles with another. And then I think of you. We both are hands of the same God. That's why I think I like to know what you're doing, so I can too, douse myself in something like that.

- The Broken Clock