When You Write On Your Own, You

When He Died, I Went About Like A Ragged Crow Telling Strangers, "my Father Died, My Father Died." My Indiscretion Embarrassed Me, But I Could Not Help It. Without My Father On His Delhi Rooftop, Why Was I Here? Without Him There, Why Should I Go Back? Without That Ache Between Us, What Was I Made Of?

Slowly, Painstakingly, Like Ants, Men Would Make Their Paths And Civilization And Their Wars Once Again, Only To Have It Wash Away Again.

A Man Wasn't Equal To An Animal, Not One Particle Of Him. Human Life Was Stinking Corrupt, And Meanwhile There Were Beautiful Creatures Who Lived With Delicacy On The Earth Without Doing Anyone Harm. "we Should Be Dying." The Judge Almost Wept.

Saeed Quickly Found Employment At A Banana Republic, Where He Would Sell To Urban Sophisticates The Black Turtleneck Of The Season, In A Shop Whose Name Was Synonymous With Colonial Exploitation And The Rapacious Ruin Of The Third World.

I Don't Think You Can Write According To A Set Of Rules And Laws; Every Writer Is So Different.