Ou est mon maitre prince rebel....?

He told her: he fell from the sky and lived. She took a deep breath and believed him, because of her father's faith in the myriad and contradictory possibilities of life, and because, too, of what the mountain had taught her. "Okay," she said, exhaling. "I'll buy it. Just don't tell my mother, all right?" The universe was a place of wonders, and only habituation, the anaesthesia of the everyday, dulled our sight. She had read, a couple of days back, that as part of their natural processes of combustion, the stars in the skies crushed carbon into diamonds. The idea of the stars raining diamonds into the void: that sounded like a miracle, too. If that could happen, so could this. Babies fell out of zillionth-floor windows and bounced. There was a scene about that in François Truffaut's movie L'Argent du Poche...She focused her thoughts. "Sometimes," she decided to say, "wonderful things happen to me, too."

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Two quick things.

How. The. Hell. Did. We. Lose. That. Match?
When I left to see Tulu Mashi, the score was 96/6 - I was almost certain we were going to win, so I didn't bother to find out about the rest of the match. What a rude shock I got when I found out. Jesus. No wonder I'm not as obsessed with cricket as I used to be. Good for Sri Lanka, though. That was a damn good comeback.

Also. If I continue living with my grandmother for much longer, I'm going to end up batshit crazy. I'm getting there already.

Oh, and I lied, because I have to add a third thing:

I really, really, really need a hug.