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As far as the author can remember, he was on his spongy bed making love to his cosy blanket with his favourite thriller in hand when he dozed off last night.
But, where is he now? He can’t remember if he has stepped there before. From the depth of darkness, he can only hear some haunting groans of pain and some cries of loss, some familiar and unfamiliar some. No escape. He calls out for help but to be heard only by his soul who rests calmly on his back, busy scribbling on the dry leaves of autumn fall with his blood dragging the last out of him.
The author blends those careless scribbles with his weird syllables to form some poorly designed poems to be written in this book of his (soul’s) own.
But confusions still lay unswept if anyone did abandon him there amid his dreams or he just woke up from the dreams of the comfy last night.