A bird neglecting its wings in sport skids down the slanted roof of the sky on a dusty piece of cardboard. Within, a copper closet rings with the concourse, rubbing shoulders and vibrating tread, voices match and mismatch a wall of colour picking samples; I receive a nosebleed on board the high Vimana.
Cut through the dull brown skin of the potato to reveal the crisp oil-slick iridescence beneath, and the smell of rain on incense rods. Jumbled leaves of tile scale the broad lizard, each of its many legs the strut to girder the ground; but the ground is far, far below. Nascent smells from under a bird’s dusty feathers broaden the high roof, the slanted Vimana sides, sliding above the flattened rays of iridescent incense vibrating beneath us, beneath the great tread that rings with the jumbled voices innumerable.