It’s the same road, only more damaged. I am heading on the same route and coming back via the same route. It’s the same dust rising and settling down and, the next morning, rising again. It’s the same people greeting me in the noon, the same tea in the evening, the same foolishness all day. The same men occupying the same chairs, breaking the same desks, laughing at the same jokes. The same people asking for silly favours, the same people farting egos, the same people screaming for nothing worthwhile. The same sky with nothing but clouds and a handful of rain. All the seven hundred of my life and I cannot differentiate any one from any other.