Sapped – ruined days

It is 9.am, the sun’s slant ray pierces through an iron-clad stratosphere above one of Europe’s most overrated cities – London – a low-brow, commercial, platitude rife town; the same scents permeate the air. The voque riveted to the short-term memory. Everyone is transient, you to them.

A walk suffices to conjure effete imagery, sounds, scents – fused to form ailments in the mind, as said by psychiatry. Inebriate with thought, sapped in hope. Alcohol is requisite for garnish. Booze served in a glass, quaffed sitting on furniture – exorbitant, so you exchange the glass for a can, furniture for a bench. Music marries the imagination – you are free in euphoria; the list is endless, but you are care-free, for the mind is the escape hub. Friends are called, love is declared, another day pulls you towards perdition; the next day will produce more, one hopes.

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