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Major Mystique

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Felice Oblivion (By Major Mystique) Part-3: Rigel (in caption) When the sun sets, you have to be sure of the stars. Some you love for the light others you love for the grandeur, but only one you love for what it is. Deepak sir said in his slow yet firm tone, "You know why you hate it? Because you  do not visualise the figures and you do not verify the fo

Felice Oblivion (By Major Mystique) Part-3: Rigel (in caption) When the sun sets, you have to be sure of the stars. Some you love for the light others you love for the grandeur, but only one you love for what it is. Deepak sir said in his slow yet firm tone, "You know why you hate it? Because you  do not visualise the figures and you do not verify the fo

payal jaswal

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Irrational (adjective) We toss glass bottle stuffed with a letter into the ocean hoping that it would find its way to someone familiar and curse the same sea when it chokes our throat to throw us into a known horizon. Aren't humans irrational? #yqbaba #latest #irrational #life

Irrational (adjective) We toss glass bottle stuffed with a letter into the ocean hoping that it would find its way to someone familiar and curse the same sea when it chokes our throat to throw us into a known horizon. Aren't humans irrational? #yqbaba #latest #irrational #life

Abinesh

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I like the generosity of numbers. The way, for example, they are willing to count anything or anyone: two pickles, one door to the room, eight dancers dressed as swans. I like the domesticity of addition— add two cups of milk and stir— the sense of plenty: six plums on the ground, three more falling from the tree. And multiplication's school of fish times fish, whose silver bodies breed beneath the shadow of a boat. Even subtraction is never loss, just addition somewhere else: five sparrows take away two, the two in someone else's garden now. There's an amplitude to long division, as it opens Chinese take-out box by paper box, inside every folded cookie a new fortune. And I never fail to be surprised by the gift of an odd remainder, footloose at the end: forty-seven divided by eleven equals four, with three remaining. Three boys beyond their mothers' call, two Italians off to the sea, one sock that isn't anywhere you look ©Abinesh Numbers

I like the generosity of numbers. The way, for example, they are willing to count anything or anyone: two pickles, one door to the room, eight dancers dressed as swans. I like the domesticity of addition— add two cups of milk and stir— the sense of plenty: six plums on the ground, three more falling from the tree. And multiplication's school of fish times fish, whose silver bodies breed beneath the shadow of a boat. Even subtraction is never loss, just addition somewhere else: five sparrows take away two, the two in someone else's garden now. There's an amplitude to long division, as it opens Chinese take-out box by paper box, inside every folded cookie a new fortune. And I never fail to be surprised by the gift of an odd remainder, footloose at the end: forty-seven divided by eleven equals four, with three remaining. Three boys beyond their mothers' call, two Italians off to the sea, one sock that isn't anywhere you look ©Abinesh Numbers

Arshi Dokadia

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I stopped looking at the numbers the day they began to interfere with my words. #YQbaba #numbers

I stopped looking at the numbers the day they began to interfere with my words. #YQbaba #numbers