To you.

This is perhaps my favourite time of the year. I begin this letter from one of the abandoned compartments of an airconditioned bogey, a humble offering of the Western Railways. It’s only 7:45 in the morning, but the sun has no respite. I am protected from its glare by ten centimeters of toughened blue glass, but I can taste its heat at the back of my mouth. I can smell it excite the green in plants, scorch the earth and consume the breeze. The sky is a relentless blue. Drops of sweat decorate the faces of persevering men and women, as if dew. And as I traverse borders, lands, and skies, this is my favourite time to write to you.

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