The sky stretches the way a muse would. She poses on a lush carpet of infinity for some great but infamous artist. The carpet itself is woven with time and sequined with seasons. One part of the tapestry had started turning grey. A little rip in the infinite carpet and a moistness spreads – like power up a spine, like sleep through the mind. In the distance, birds fly towards the spot of the sky that has started turning darker. Grey deepens to black. Treetops sway. Little spurts of silver rain sweep across the world. The muse has started to tremble. The artist has begun to paint. The monsoon is a masterpiece yet.
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