Love me do, Book Panda.

I love Fort for one obvious reason – it smells significantly of mildewy papyrus and old wrapping-plastic. That is, the slew of second-hand books that the book-wallahs sell. You could go to them and demand your copy of Nabokov or Munroe, and the beaming, ecstatic man would scout around his wares for a minute or two, and then emerge triumphantly from the Cocoon with the said title between his fingers. He’d toss the book to you in a hurry, because some flushed customer would be asking for Maupassant or Frey, and you’d open the book, look fondly at the spotted flyleaf, smoothen the dog-eared pages with much affection, and then take the blessed thing to your face for some olfactory appreciation. And The Fragrance would spirit you to some distant Kafka-esque world, and you’d look at the next customer, red with embarrassment. And he’d nod and smile at you, gesturing his understanding in the briefest of moments.

Choleric, but not myopic.

Pretty soon, the black will darken the white. Starting from the edges, it will flare out quietly, eating at the whiteness slowly, till its fingers reach the centre and chew that out too.

Jupiter knows.

Sometimes, I wish I could take a gun to these foreheads. But I'm not sure whether I'll be content with them biting the bullet. I want them to swallow it, allow it to tear up their internals, and then finally watch the life drain out from these eyes. Damned SIs.

Fyodor, Raskolnikov just threw up.