Some Moribund Plane-speaking

The skeleton was looking pretty with small bulbs lighting up the ribs and the scapula, while I swooped down for a bit of flesh. But there was darkness, and darkness alone, interspersing the lights. I realized it was not a fresh corpse, the city had died long back.The anatomy was now being preserved in the bonhomie of a million lights, in the tangy green pickle of money. Once, I had sat with u in the skeleton itself, peeping through the bared ribs of the JNU cafetaria, watching scores of vultures circling the sky, teasing the moon like a eager pentagenarian on a minibus....now the tables had turned. Like some Kafkaesque transformation, I was the vulture...and little lovers, star-crossed friends and infertile desires swarmed the jungles below. And when I swooped, I felt this pitless feeling signalling my exile into a carcass based existence.To the mind uninitiated, patronising smiles would pepper the narrative right here and point towards the lack of regular flying ..but that is not the point. Acclimatisation hardly took more than a couple of flights...the fall was more of Rushdie's opening gamble in the Satanic Verses, one which defines the devil over the angel, the vulture over the sheep...maybe the dazzling, blood-red pain and failure over sedate 9-5 happiness. More to come from Pandora, just chew on his genius for now....