My best photograph photo challenge #33 and life short story All the people of dreams
A blue paper in the letter flew a little and came to my toes. Curiously picked up. Written letter, 'no one can survive. No one can die completely. Is there something like that? Fine survival, or completely die? ... 'I did not read anymore. What is that crazy writing Occasionally the address-no-envelopes me, 'Give it a call.' Never go by yourself and the mailbox is folded paper. Pioneers may throw away, or maybe take home home laughing. This paper and cigarette pieces spread throughout the house. Waste money Suddenly the anger became big. For you, so much trouble for you.
I took the mosque out in rough hands. Lonely face. Dazzling eyes opened. I was afraid to see me scared. I was ashamed to look at the huge handmade of my iron-haired hand holding a masheri. Again dad's face turned again. He does not want too much. Only letter papers and cheaper cigarettes. I saw her dirty smell, my cheek-less bearded hair, and trimmed hair. My grandfather is not very careful. I was sleeping and now seeing me in the face of suspicion. No, I do not have any of his dreams. I am the real one, with whom his jute has gone for a long time. So I went home slowly and from house to house.
Stay, my grandfather is like that. We can not see what we see, and maybe we can see it. The birds of the forest may come to talk to him, maybe he is known to be from Meraajudeva, he is surrounded by all the people of dreams. It seems that my grandfather is no more sad. If that unknown girl comes in front of you now, if she says, 'I want to?' She will look like she is scared of such fear. Do not know; He is no longer the grandfather's dream country. What will happen to him and drag him into the reality of happiness and sorrow? This is quite like my grandfather. Crazy people