The rain is nothing new. The sky has been black, as black as night, all day. Number 52***** puts the oil in the midnight flame.
He is unable to bear it now. The burden exceeds his limits, or so he thinks. A victim of a shattered mind, the guilt, the feeling of failure eats into him. Those termites, they've hollowed him, and now they've reached surface.
There is not much time left. The ink is in it's bottle, and Abhas just doesn't have it in him to start writing. He thinks dreaming with his eyes wide open will take him to his heights. He is on the verge of collapsing, and he wants his goals accomplished, served to him in a silver platter.
Till then, a sound echoes inside: "You're gonna keep running away?"
"Keep running away?"...
"I'm not running..."