Until then, I went to eat at night. I write again. There is no scope to keep a close relationship with the literary world. The text is absolutely closed. My Muse is mute. In no time, he does not know whether he will open his mouth. Heavy noise at head If the head is not fixed, the art does not come out, but the vortex on my head is going on. The body is not good. Do not know the status of Mani and Ramesh, send it.
A little while ago, some butterflies were playing on the grasslands. I think that the beauty of the world is awakening to every poke, so many poets have been able to catch a little bit of the lingering of the language-an unknown water in the nectar-sea, somebody or a droplet. We walk on the side of this beauty of the common people, and someone or someone standing up and lifting an angle. But nothing has happened now. Maybe there is a time that we can not imagine poetry. They will sing this clay, this cloudy day of the green grass or the night of this storm - but the superhuman tunes that we could not catch, they will blame him.