I know a man who is out there. Who was always there since the beginning. He looks like me, dresses like me, talks like me, even he thinks like me, but he who pours his prayers into oblivion, sitting on a mountain. A mountain made up of the ashes of TIME. Ashes of this very minute and of all those things which have lost their fraction of existence during this very minute. He is always writing all that. Maybe a never ending poem or a never ending prayer? He is randomly touching all the empty names of his reality one by one.
          But I wish he should die & lose his immortality just like that. So, his death would become the entire essence of his poetry!