You can’t count the sunsets and the maghrib to the day you’ll be somewhere else. You’ll be gone and the forest outside your window will have been cleared before you awake to its loss, a bare orange ground left where eucalyptus danced. You see it happening but you don’t chase it with shabby watercolours of ultramarine and sap. You envy those who do, with a lethargy.No, you don’t count down to the last sunset falling maroon behind Nandi Hills, you count the days you haven’t seen the sun rise over the lake and vanish under the fog of pink and grey dawns. You don’t remember what happened between the two, but you hold on to what you have lest you forget the day ever came at all.


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