Kerouac
The jazz hand of the signal mesmerizes the railway road. Here desires to be There. A blue becomes my face. My tired car punctures the time. A hiss bleeds out in the air. I am tired everyday. I am the everyday. The last roll of the toilet paper holds the tale of my life, and the anecdotes of a pandemic sleep syndrome. I call my friend died last month's first Sunday. He whispers, "Hear the local train pass. It plays the wind like God. The music is God." Bio - An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, works as a journalist. He authored eight books and has been translated into eleven languages across the globe. Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Fevers of the Mind 