If life is like blots of water-colours on a paper-boat floating all alone in a little puddle of rain-water collected in a dent, in a narrow street open to the sky above; the colors getting pinched out of the boat and dissolving in the water with every slight **** in the pool, caused by droplets popping into it from the drenched rooftops overhead… then you’re like the minute creature, invisible to man’s naked eye, sailing alone in that boat and looking at the gathering clouds above, afraid if it might rain again soon, if a careless footstep might fall on the puddle, if a wanton boy might crush the boat for fun, most of all, afraid if the boat might lose all its colors before anything…