Idiot box consort
An eight-by-ten box with one smart card is my passport to heaven. It will bring me the jungles of Africa, if I like, with elephants walking knee-deep in grass; it will show me New York when I so fancy; take me to violent-though-unbloody boxing rings; all of Vivaldi's seasons; Spain, sombreros, tacos; cocaine; Brazil; Man United...
In just 29 inches. My God of small things... and my archangel consort to the honourable idiot box.
Why should it take so much time, effort and money to let one city be part of the world.
P.S.: Got my set top box today. In CAS-ruled Chennai, we need that to be a part of the whole.
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If you can smell the heat, now, what do you think would be its colour: white, yellow, green or red? For me now, it is the colour of grey, sooty, diesel-smelling exhaust smoke blowing in my face.
On good days, it could also smell like a hot steam iron on a fresh white sheet. On good days, I wouldn't be on Mount Road.
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Blogging's catching up with hacks. FW and Swaha have bloughted (blog + thought?) too. Two people with two different reasons to write: Swaha wants to expand the world to draw you in, inclusively. FW, who bares her heart selectively, creates a uterine cosmos, exclusively.
May the Force be with.. er.. the public and the private!