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.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
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.