Utsob Roy 🖖A Being is a being in time.
A soul, there is not, but a self— an aggregation of senses.
And when I smell you, what is it? The fragrance of your Being?
Ever-changing, temporal, and now in my nerves.
I am mad, I am Faana.
But, of what?
The fragrance? Or, the remembrance of living it brought.
Or, is life nothing but, and only lived truly in, this madness?