*
At the dais, when the current os steps forward and folds up his prepared resignation speech. The conference is ready to riot. It rejects the pleas one by one as diagnostic report. It can feel the pain at it’s joints, the crutches it has used and refused till now seem so necessary. The sores in it’s releases, untreated with pus, magnify into ulcers.

০+০+১/২ ২ দিন।
০+০+১ ২ দিন।
১+০+১ চলবে।

Your face, huddled between your knees on the third row from the front, and then as he steps off stage, raised fist, you pick up, your finger twirls radial touching every unseen spoke, and like the inner soliloquys of capitalism, speaking in boom and bust cycles: a suckerpunch masquerading as a lilt, and to this day i can see you in the echoes.

*
গাছে কেরুর বোতল। ডালের ফাঁক দিয়ে এক গান সংগ্রামের অফিস, শেখানে, শিমুলের পোস্টার, তার কাঁটা তো আছেই, থাকতেই হবে, আছে পুনর্বেশন, আছে ভেজা চুল, ঘৃনার মতো আলো, আর আছে কন্ঠ, আছে ওর মতো হয়ে যাওয়ার ভয়।

*
200 pages seem like nothing at all now: Lara decontextualizing on her fights with ma, missing out on all the hints to the underground railroad on ‘sometimes i feel like a motherless child’ but still managing remain stone-cold, now on ma’s wall, in the cockpit, wheel in hand, breaking the barriers, she’d hoped on and the next, in a 24×36 frame.

*

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