Ang Lee

I am a fairly regular reader in bed (the only other place I read in is the toilet) but today I am scared to go to bed. You can thank Aravind Adiga for that. The anger of the pages from last night seared the tips of my fingers enough to force me to think a million times about returning. The fire, the fire within is affecting the temperature in the room. I am sweating on a mildly chilly October night, creating islands of imprinted sweat on my otherwise solid pale blue sea of a shirt.

Contemplating between Zeppelin and Budweiser to quench my anger. I have gone with the former and Jimmy's solos help a little to escape the apathy of the bourgeois of Delhi described in The White Tiger, the failed attempt of the combined effort of Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau in Couples Retreat, this feeling of forever running on the treadmill towards an invisible angel who sounds real from far, far away, cleft lips of Bangladeshi babies in neighboring aisle seats and translating their angry wails at six thousand feet up in the air, men invading the maternal pores of cows with their ugly tools.

I don't wanna get up tomorrow and get sucked into this vicious cycle of fervent email checking that will sustain me till the End. I want to spend a week in bed like John, of course alone, without my Yoko, and then maybe they'll give me a Nobel too. I want to feed my credit card bill to August's frog, and maybe he'll turn into a bespectacled bureaucrat and serve me some fresh red tape, which I can't spell and have to rely on the fucking spellchecker to salvage me. I want to arson the ashes out of the watchtower while Hendrix plays on a burning lotus in the background as Saraswati pole dances around her curvy tanpura next to him like a teenage hippie on LSD. I wanna hold Raj Thakerey's hand and take him to this place he's never been before - Bombay. I want to introduce a friend to that jack in class - subjectivity.