On a crowded rally of a pandemic where I had chosen to hide and miss the blow and shelve morning news like yoga-asanas with a toss, round my neck and a curved spine, being too curved for just a flex, there are views from just a blood-gripped head. Down where my head almost courts my feet, I look through sinister roads and decide to call abjection as infirmity. I sometimes think I had broken it somewhere back then. Between measuring urban distancing and a pandemic's creed nothing much changed. Save a knock on the cell where the once wilful belligerence turned into guilt reckoning with death and dearth. And soon after, ignoring began flirting with ignorance through stranger mirth. Or say, when the theater of absurdity moved through the absurdity of meeting at our theaters. She had said then. She had said things expand before they contract. Like "...writing poetry has been a lonely fare to be heard but from afar." And so, she said, "decide on the 'to...s' first". To look from afar Or talk from afar. But here now, a drowsy mumbling of words brews out of me like the untouched drink fading into myself ; now with her gone. Deeper at a space of shrieks and sighs where my spine broke long back. Where I learnt the art of loving from afar. There's no to two words now, without an audience and a tapped, neglected tune of yesteryears. My eyes have been squinting free, close. Near and far. With none to look at , in a moving dream, alone in a bar.