I suppose somewhere in this world, there’s an airport. A hollow, shelled husk of what I’d refer to as an airport. Maybe my friends still exist in ...ome way. Maybe they exist beyond the weakening memories. Do they remember me? Am I just a weak, rough memory for their minds to ponder over, as well? Am I just a wilted, discarded husk in a long since abandoned airport? Sometimes I worry that I’ll never fly again. Sometimes I worry that the clouds will always waltz so high above me, their only. Or khala mojhe banhoon mein liye baithi rahi, kafi dair tak ham yoonhi baithe rahe phir mein ne thori si himat ki or apna aik hath aage la ker on ki chatioon pe rakh diya or halka halka sa dibane laga, khala ne koyi reponse nahi diya phir mein ne apna moon khala ki chatiyoo se ragraa to bhi khala koch nahi booli, phir mein ne khala ki chatiyoon ko aik haat se zoor se dabaya, to khala ne kaha ke kiya howa to mein kaha ke khala mojhe shayed neind aany lagi he is liye mojhe neind ka jhatka laga to. More

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