Till then. Go on and make fun of my ghost-deviant account. I've got homework to do.
P.S. Like any average Pakistani student, I expect to have my ass nuclear-fissioned on-campus.


Paranoia is a demon.Herein lies the hollow core. Defined precisely by diffidence and paranoia. It shakes me and it breaks me. It incinerates my entire existence so quietly, people think nothing could be wrong. The demon with the pearl mask. He sits in the farthest corner of my head and tells me not to trust you.Paranoia is a demon.
Or myself.


Fate, its children and I.I dream.Fate, its children and I.
When the west end of the sky eats the Sun for supper, I will always try to make sense of it all. The dandelions are kissing one another and so are a thousand tragedies before they set on their journey towards my little home. I lock the door with a glass key that breaks in my hand and adorns blood lines across my palm. And when my guests arrive, I offer them tea and tales of comical misfortune.
They laugh.
They laugh so I laugh like we all laugh at the sickest things. Two lumps of sugar and they know who I am. How can ten years with the same person fail to provide you with the clarity that hits y


When People Ask...When People Ask About HomeWhen People Ask...
When people ask about home, I am silent. I have no words to let them hear the way the first drops of monsoon
drum upon the parched heart of Lahore.
When people ask about home, I am bewildered. I have no idea how to make them smell the sweetness of methi in July,
the yellowbrightness of its smile.
When people ask about home, I am ashamed. I think about the woman in the Gucci
sunglasses who called Mukhtaraan Mai
attention-hungry, I mean, poori dunya ko batana zaroori hai
I was raped? Seriously, yaa
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