I'm listening to Louis Armstrong on Spotify. Arihant rushes into the room with a torch that was originally meant to project images of planets, nebulae and galaxies on the wall. Ever since he lost the films, it's reduced to a vanilla torch that projects a featureless circle on the wall. Ari croons a song on the planets, hopelessly out of tune and factually utterly incorrect. He now begs for his telescope, a request I reject owing to the clouds.
Happy the man,and happy he alone, He,who can call today his own; He who,secure within,can say, Tomorrow do thy worst,for I have lived today.
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