And then I decided to sit upstraight and type. It takes a lot of pain, a little solitude and a saturday midnight to get tapping.
The one feeling I always I wanted to treasure is a victim of espionage. A character assassined to notorious fame by a certain Mr. Farhan Akhtar spies on it.
I looked back after ages, that too on being pulled and mauled into doing it. And yet, I am my own convict, I hurt myself.
When noone cherishes taking into the past, why must I keep resorting to it? Even the dearest of memories should be let free,
But if you could heal a broken heart
Wouldn't time be out to charm you
