Expressions

The street was a long, interminable stretch of agony, lit sporadically. At one place, an old tungsten bulb lit the gravel pavement, hanging outside an equally old house. A few paces ahead hung an ancient lantern, flickering and dying in its yellow radiance, outside an equally dilapidated shack. Adjacent to it stood a magnificent bungalow that glowed in brilliance under dozens of its lustrous white lights. Nothing of its emanating glow made it to the portion of the street where it stood strong and proud. Somewhere ahead, a shuttered down, closed house had a white bulb lighting its threshold, contributing its part of illuminating the street. It was an unusual street. There were no other smaller streets extending from its main course. It was narrow and claustrophobic. It had no beginning, no end. The buildings that lined its boundaries were all connected with no interspaces. The ending wall of one house marked the beginning of the other. At some places, magnanimous, extravagant structures...

There was complete silence. Only broken intermittently by the casual, soothing strokes of a pen against a paper. Every swooping, cursive movement, unique in the sound it produced. The source of that disturbance being a lone man in a corner. The room was entirely wooden, its floor laden with planks and its roof adorned in rustic woods. The wooden walls spoke of ages. An old cottage of refuge. A lone shack of solace. The room was small in dimensions but possessed a window, through which golden rays of the midday’s sun slanted across the floor, lighting the indoors. The man was busy scribbling on a parchment, which had a yellow hue of its own. He sat on a small wooden chair, so obsolete that it appeared it only had a few more years before it would refuse to endure any more burden, and would crumble to its death not being able to shoulder its own weight. The table upon which the writing was in progress suffered the same fate. There was no other furniture in the vicinity. Nevertheless, the ...