Vision.

The glare of those neons.

shimmering attire, living, loving, laughing. The bustle of the street, the

thoroughfares of festivity, the salty smell of pakoras and your eyes spare a

second round the corner.

You realise that the dish in your hand wasn't as vapid anymore. The salt in the air has found its way to morph it's state. In rivulets they trickle down some old, forgotten ways.

But a few still await release.

What still confounds them in those potholes of arid wilderness?

No hope but immunity, may be a flickering whim of chances. The dusty curs howl all the same; silence smears the other nook.

People live, laugh. Ignorance grasps love.