“there are no soft rests here, no bird songs and Mother's yellow branches to swing me. only hideous lullabies and grotesque poems hung on the wind, everywhere. they swirl around as if dusts from mad city, and dirty smokes from factories, and i inhale all of them. like cannabis. i inhale it more often that i fancy mosquitoes and its bites as Mother's kiss, touch, a basketful of love.”
Book:Metamorphosis