Dear Ray, the breeze tonight, smells of the last day we met. It’s the same wanton wind that sweeps aside all that is not happy in this world and allows you to laugh with all your heart, predicting rains. There is a particular smell that each day or a phase of our lives engulfs itself in and it is strange how we can never remind ourselves of that day or phase, without indulging into an air filled with that smell. Yet, unlike a day in April, today doesn’t smell of happiness. The world around me is isolated. The streets lie barren with sudden screams of impulses coming out of locked doors. It seems as if the world has alas given all its time into mourning; as if it has narrowed itself down solely to prevent me from the pleasure of pondering over my insignificance in this vivid cosmos. I don't know why, today reminds me of you; of us. I couldn’t bid you a proper farewell. Could I dear Ray? Why does most of the time life not hint at the last times? How different a world would it have made if it perfectly portrayed or at least revealed glimpses of the 'last times'! Yet dear Ray, we must have regrets and bewilderment in our lives. Our lives are too good to be perfect. At least, I would never want my life to be perfect. It must be full of those little follies that makes us dream. At the end of the day, I’ll always love to wish, to whisper into the nights the long strand of words that I have left unsaid; that I have left unwritten.