Walk, First, Through The Fire, Then Philosophize.

If Time Were A Bolt Of Cloth,” Said Om, “i Would Cut Out All The Bad Parts. Snip Out The Scary Nights And Stitch Together The Good Parts, To Make Time Bearable. Then I Could Wear It Like A Coat, Always Live Happily.

Traffic In The Streets Of Bombay Is Chaotic At Best. Riding A Bicycle Is A Dangerous Occupation. However, There Are Hundreds Of Them On The Streets Competing With The Cars And Buses And Lorries Because It Is The Poor Man's Mode Of Transport.

Everyone Underestimates Their Own Life. Funny Thing Is, In The End, All Our Stories...they're The Same. In Fact, No Matter Where You Go In The World, There Is Only One Important Story: Of Youth, Loss And Yearning For Redemption. So We Tell The Same Story, Over And Over. Only The Details Are Different.

Remembering Bred Its Own Peculiar Sorrow. It Seemed So Unfair: That Time Should Render Both Sadness And Happiness Into A Source Of Pain.

Flirting With Madness Was One Thing; When Madness Started Flirting Back, It Was Time To Call The Whole Thing Off.