Pretending that the mobile phone in my pocket is a bass guitar pickup.
Starring at wet white stripes on the road at a crossing as they get distorted in the rain.
Getting used to air-conditioning.
Getting used to constant brightness.
Struggling with vocal melodies trapped in my head.
Wet shoes. Wet socks.
Neon sign flickering across the street at midnight.
Truck horns singing hit songs of a bygone era.
A black era.
The urge to break mirrors in an elevator.
Only replying to questions.
No more anxiety. No more cognizance
No more dogs in the street. No more dust in the air.
Fake and artificial.
Fear of being a mortal.
Fear upon coming across success stories.
Fear upon coming across disasters.
Imagining articles of self on Wikipedia.
But only about good things.
Blurring lines between modesty and masochism.