bombay is like a once-gorgeous woman now asphyxiated, found lying a pool of her own vomit after OD-ing on her own pride, fame and unending desires. one may look at her and reminisce the beauty captured in sepia photographs in forgotten albums in trunks lying under old khatiya beds. one may look at her, sigh, and wish for a present as pompous as that childhood past. yet, i can only look at her and despise her for what she has become, and look to leave her as quickly as i possibly can. she did me one last favour, though, because she saved me the trouble of concocting an excuse to leave her: in killing herself, she absolved me the guilt that deserters are otherwise condemned to contend with. bombay, as much as i love what we had, you now disgust me.