Paradise Of Flesh (Excuse The Pun)

A bustling street. On that street crawls a crowded bus. On that bus the passengers jostle for space relentlessly. Time is stretched, it seems. Life is not transient. No, not now.

Threescore years and ten we exist. If it be the will of the Almighty, fourscore. Accumulation of years means accumulation of sorrows. Sorrow that lies in the glistening eyes of she who lost her begottenin a flash of blinding light. A flash that spoke of a million injustices. Life. Transience.

The aftermath of the tragedy was a nasty affair. Scavengers picking through the rubble, finding pieces of dubious value. Grieving ones at the periphery, not willing to advance any closer, as though the spirits of the lost had formed a barrier, protesting their innocence. Media hounds sniffing about, begging for inspiration to descend upon their muzzles, grant them a magnificent story. It cannot be a shocking revelation, for it now breeds contempt...