It's eerie where a man can find resemblances. I was altogether not aghast to find the prison cell of Charles Shobraj in a recent TV series looking quite similar to the room that I have been calling my home, my refuge for some time. Damp walls cried out asking for a refurbishment, untidy personal items, apparently disorganised and scattered work files though inconspicuously highly catalogued in my agitated mind. The uneasiness is not about the scarcity or shortfalls, it's about the entrapment that you are made aware of, the real prison that in fact we are all living in. Maybe the correct approach was never to let yourself out and in fact was to get even more entrapped. The journey is long, questions endless and the existence abhorring. Finding meaning in the little chit chats, small tasks, a bit here and a bit there is the only thing that a common person can do. Achieving great things, conquering great heights and other lofty ambitions can be left for some other times when the writer is sober and all together drunk with the delusion of becoming immortal. Full stop!