Sunday, September 03, 2006

A perfect Sunday ....

What more could you ask for ... what more could you want on a sunday ... feel lazy .. relax ... stretch on a bean bag ... read The Hindu Literary Review.. sip on hot creamy coffee with low sugar... bit by bit by bit .. You are unconsciously aware of the presence of the coffee mug next to you ... You know there is still a little more coffee left in it .. but you dont let it bother you much .. you are engrossed in the literature ... you can feel the fluid running through your veins .. slowly entering your foggy sleepy brain ... you can feel the caffeine working on you .... but you are too lazy ... you cant even feel the bean bag behind you .. you are taken away into a world of lethargy and comfort ... that forbidden pleasure of loathing ... not letting anything worry you .. not even the time ... not even the sound of the waking day ... the outside seems so disconnected ... you dont even know if it is morning or evening ... the pleasant sunshine has been fading feel you are absorbed into a comfortable surrounding where you wanted to be for a long time ... as if slowly sinking into a giant pillow made of white feathers ... as if entrapped into a heap of fresh morning snow ... but letting yourself seep into it ... and then slowly you grope your hands around you ... searching for something as if in the dark ... and pick the mug and bring it to your lips .... its no longer warm .. its cold and watery ... you know you have been there for a long time .. you try to get back to your reading can still feel the masculine stench of coffee lingering in your mouth .. the taste of expensive coffee... and little did you know that you had slowly slipped into a perfect mid morning nap, on your bean bag .. with the sunday review newspaper outstretched on your chest, a coffee mug beside like a blanket barely covering you ... little did you know .... that this was the perfect sunday morning you always wanted..

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"Florentino is so in love with Fermina that he eats gardenias and drinks cologne so that he can know her taste. He becomes drunk on the cologne, and his mother finds him the next morning, in a puddle of his vomit, in a cove of the bay where drowning victims are known to wash ashore" - Love in the time of Cholera