Hours

So here I am then, a man in orange kurta, typing out his feelings. Nothing more, nothing less.
And there is the city outside, blazing under the April sun. Nay, throbbing under it. Everything glowing and pulsating-cars, men, women and buildings. No respite, only greater and lesser degree of brightness.
And there you are. My reader. The powerful one. Armed with the discretion to dismiss me, applaud me or simply flip through.
And we all make sense in our own warped way.