There was no colour in his world. His monochromatic world was filled with black and white. Some radicals of his time used to think that it was the other way around. His whole generation was black and white. They sang songs, danced, painted, cooked, fought, played and died in black and white. Even his dreams were in black and white. Now as he sat there in that dusty attic, he thought in black and white about what will happen to his picture tube which hasn't seen a decent TV show in years.
Looks like the fog just spared my window to the street. The street lights looked liking smokers in an alley. The cobble stones were wet from the drizzle. The street dogs were busy barking at something. A breeze just unsettled the garbage can's lid. My world hasn't changed much. Everyday I look for some sign of change. Nothing seems to change. I have grown bald. My eyesight has dimmed. My kids have grown. The window pane has gathered dust and dirt. The spiders have evolved. Some old buildings have given way to new ones. The neon signs have gone. Still nothing seem to have changed. Change they say has to come from within. But then, what can come out of an empty narrow dead end?
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