I wake up from a relatively restful slumber; Vividly recalling that somehow, I hadn't dreamt. Or, was it that I had but it encompassed nothing worth remembering? Like an hourglass without sand; A quill without ink. I meander through empty corridors ; they're not empty, they merely seem so. These paintings, they don't whisper to me; They don't tell me of their origin. They don't make me laugh until my eyes water, And they don't elucidate how when the artist wants to depict tears of joy , he holds the brush differently; Dilutes the colour to a different degree. They don't tell me that this play of colour has behind it a profound science of molarity. (which too, unsurprisingly they don't explain) They don't discuss how my innate love for art and philosophy and history is inextricable from science because although a scepter once haunted Europe and largely dissipated, a new one awaits its turn, patiently, yet certainly. I turn to the lamp, ...
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