inkit

 (Image source : hope.huanqiu) Like the harmattan invading the Sub-Sahara, it keeps hitting my face. If i was an origami it'd blow me away. It moves swiftly with the bus following its every move; I hear it's invisible. Its hands are cold and clean. Sadly, it is shelter to a plethora of vagabonds; Pieces of wholes sail on it, like boats in a regatta; Haven to unseeable presences. It embraces quite subtly; That kind of grip that pampers the mind. And that kind of succor that could hurt. It could also quickly send your mind on errands. A kind of gust you would cherish when the sun seems angry with your room. That same kind of gust you would abhor when you want your candle alive. They say it's the reason we haven't lost our breath. They also say it's the reason the firewood cooks us victuals. Eternal herald of man's verbalism, it remains. Eternal herald of man's woes, it always has been. It, like men, wears a garment of perfidy S...