I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when Iâ€™m sick or cold or sad or celebrating. Theyâ€™ll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. Iâ€™ll be an Unidentified Living Object and theyâ€™ll put my insides on display.
It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.