link.

"budding scientist found under rubble"

there are strange (and loud) noises emanating from my ceiling. this is, to a great degree, surprising because i live under a roof. or so i think. hence, kindly consider this is to be my last note in a personal capacity, and let it serve as a documentation in case they find me with a roof-cleaning-machine-like-thing on my head in the morning. or an alien spacecraft. i prefer the latter for the obvious glamourous reasons.

this, however, is NOT to be seen as a suicide note. call it a probable accident foresight note.

also, ignore the grammar.. for i am about die.

as the noises are getting louder.. i must hurry.

i would like to say that i lived a happy and contented life. i will die a happy man, for many and some reasons. my parents were wonderful people and thank god for that, else i would have ended up being highly-paid yuppie in usa typing out a paranoid letter into a blogpost from his plush fake-riviera hotel with zebra skinned blankets. i would like to thank all the good people i met and the wonderful people who accompanied them. i am also thankful to god for the wonderful timing he wished for my probable departure. today is an awesome day to die.. if i am so unfortunate to be done in. the only regret i can think of at the moment, is that i left my sample in the microscope. please tell the folks that it has be-bi at position 2a. and that it shouls switch.

i cant think of more things at the moment, i feel a good life shortened.. a promising end to an unfortunate career. i admit, i started writing this hoping, i can come up with some dramatic last words, to be remembered by, but vanity has deserted me at the most inopportune moment. all i can think of is lisa hannigan and her irish accent, in a weird situation. that is so juvenile for such a moment of such epiphanous proportions.

the roof is growling louder. wtf! this is stupid! i cant believe i am going to die before viggu, that rascal has subjected people to more unfunny chat logs and torturous dialogues than me.. singing -tu mileee, dil khileee- from his shower so loud, the whole friggin flats would stop in their shiny shoes to plug in their earplugs. god, you got the wrong guy. and he does nt have a wife, even. kill him. and he s probably sleeping at this hour anyway, he wont feel a thing. wrong man, wrong roof.

why me, god? why now? okay, i ll finally admit i have..

wait, it stopped. err?

hm, nevermind. good night.

p.s. viggu, pls leave a comment if you are alive when are reading this. only so.

with a toothbrush in hand, he walks out in front of an affronting mirror

and whispers..

i don't want to be slow
i might run outta time

dear boxing sriram,

i received your mail. thank you for the wise words about freedom. though i did not understand most of them.. i liked the pictures, very pretty.

convey my regards to ruskin uncle next time you visit him.

jai pr,
sr