Style No. 37: Bombastic

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Style No. 37: Bombastic

A boy as young as a bubble cast from the froth of a stormy sea blows into his whistle like the harmattan blasting over the Sahara in the bleary days of August. He is plunged into the ocean of his own thoughts like a nuclear submarine scraping the darkness of the sea floor. His supreme companion holds him in the trap of his arm like a hunter of affection laying snares for the bear of boyhood friendship, while gazing upon the masses in the distance roiling like soup pot of an aged grandmother.

At that time a grandmother as wrinkled as a desert date mummified in the tomb of a pharaoh for millennia appeared and swept past them like an incontinent ballerina, her nervousness spilling from her like the waters of a bursting dam. Beneath the shawl on her head she guarded an object as though she were a ninja hiding squid ink at midnight. Meanwhile, behind them a man as sombre as the funeral of a thousand puppies looked the other way with eyes as knowing as an orgy of the sages.

A man as old as time enswirled as if by the succulent meringues of a thousand eggs hobbles toward his home as green as all the world’s pistachio ice cream had been unctuously massaged into its slate-flat walls by the impetuous gods of nuts and dairy. Clicked this in Jew Town, Kochi, Kerala (India) in 2011.

Hey everybody — thanks for reading 🙂

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