Guess this place....

Does this look familiar ??

Guess This Place???

guess this place...

Days go by...

Ladies,
I leave this post here to put a date and a word to describe our day here.
That way we can see who is having fun and who is fighting for world peace.
Yes fighting for ... world peace. get it? Fighting!
Never mind, I'm convinced I'm not funny.

So I begin
(like always)

STRICTLY ONE WORD. Cumming permitted.

April 21
slow
sleepy
smiley
generous
feelingfatlike

May 4
restless
slow
aching

July 10
lazy
boring
low

August 21
crazy mix
rain
cycling

I don't know what to write so...

Are you guys avoiding me?
You guys!!!!
DO you REMEMBER!

If I leave a comment on your blogs, you guys don't respond.
Every one is busy talking about hostel life and hostel friends.
I put your potraits here!!!!

Am I invisible?
Yes, that I am.
But I still exist you know!

Fine!
FINE!
(door bang)
Exit stage left

This is supposed to be a photo at Marble Stairs

Ok. I know you guys don't like this right now. Ok you never looked like this and never will. Now just excuse my poor drawing and say something funny before i have to sulk.

Miss M.

I made a drawing of Mahima and did something terribly wrong. Well, try not to spot it and try not to remind her of it. Also, the lips which are a typical of Miss M are very hard to perfect. They have been coloured on photoshop to save me and my drawing skills of ridicule. Nice cover up na? Looks like I only got the glasses right. See... it may not look like our very own Miss M but it looks like someone who must have lived or will live on the face of this earth someday so thats a considerable improvement and I must be congratulated, don't you think?

chamki

A treat of poetry: Hands by Siv Cedering

I

When I fall asleep
my hands leave me.
They pick up pens
and draw creatures
with five feathers
on each wing.

The creatures multiply.
They say: "We are large
like your father's
hands."

They say: "We have
your mother's
knuckles."

I speak to them:
"If you are hands,
why don't you
touch?"

And the wings beat
the air, clapping.
They fly
high above elbows
and wrists.
They open windows
and leave
rooms.

They perch in treetops
and hide under bushes
biting
their nails. "Hands,"

I call them.
But it is fall

and all creatures
with wings

prepare to fly
South.

II

When I sleep
the shadows of my hands
come to me.

They are softer than feathers
and warm as creatures
who have been close
to the sun.

They say: "We are the giver,"
and tell of oranges
growing on trees.

They say: "We are the vessel,"
and tell of journeys
through water.

They say: "We are the cup."

And I stir in my sleep.

Hands pull triggers
and cut
trees. But

the shadows of my hands
tuck their heads
under wings

waiting
for morning,
when I will wake

braiding
three strands of hair
into one.