I dream. I dream a lot. Sometimes, I dream in pictures, sometimes, I dream in words, sometimes, in the sounds and the songs, sometimes in the smell of a familiarity. I guess it is not uncommon to dream in the taste of all such flavours, of homes and houses, of streets and pathways, that, often, seem to lead me back to the familiarities of which I dream. Also, I think not that a man may not be lost in all such conundrum of words, that, sometimes seem to go astray themselves. I owe it to my nativity on which I’d been brought up, and toward which I shall make this full circle. I hope to find my full-stops somewhere, but for now, at home I rest.