Smoggy sights as the ashen musk and gauze of rainy season beats me indoors, either in smokey bars, or over a computer. The streets are leaden and I have those slight memories of home amongst umbrellas and concrete citizens; walking wet streets, in and out of cinemas, socks always wetly clinging to my feet. Not that I’m against rain, trickling afternoons ensure comfortable laziness, no guilt of inaction, reading, whiling away by an open window thankful for even an efficiency apartment. But the cadence conspires against me. The brief punctuations, the commas of sunlight always viewed from an office window with a longing for bicycle rides, this is what smears my sight, what makes me dream of ochre evening skies. But on and on, so it goes, and I patiently wait and let my vision go soft and out of focus.