I have ordered it, and you shall have it. Soon. It’s on the way, worry not, rest assured, it will be with you soon and sweep you off your feet.

And do other things too, many other things. Just wait. Don’t worry. It’s coming, the desiring of you from me, in unstoppable streams so rainbowesque you wouldn’t believe. Nobody would. This is no ordinary desiring coming to you from me, desirer to desiree. The skies are about to explode with the hues of my wanting you, keep an eye on the sky, look up while I look down upon you. I am coming, mind it.

Have no confusion. Have no doubt. Listen to me. Do not listen to anyone else, the rest, they are the rest, let them rest. This is about you and me. Period. We are tied in ways nobody can fathom. You are my part. So much I cannot bear the thought of even you in the slightest manner expressing hesitation or, you know, what should I say, not acceptance. There is nothing to accept. Nothing to deny. Nothing to hesitate over. We are one, better accept it. And do what it would take to make it known, public. Like, you know, make an acceptance speech: nobody else is required a foot or a hand or a view here, please do not interfere, this is our internal matter. Go on, say it. Or else... You know I have plans.

Plans that will obliterate all that divides us. All lines. All borders. All sorts of such nonsense things, I mean, what are these things, you know, borders and boundaries and checkposts and checkpoint, and maps and lines and passports and visas, I mean, I mean just whaaaaaat are they? To be here? Between us? Obstructing me from you and you from me? Giraa do, mitaa do type of song should play now about this useless duniya, this duniya which is of no use to anyone sort of duniya... Yeh duniya, yeh mehfil merey kaam ki nahin. Strange? The language? No. This is a language I have known. This is a tongue I have famously sung in: phir bhi laaal topi roosi... etc. etc., let us not take that too far. That was then. This is now.

Please listen. This is out of love that I am doing this. My love is sublime, a high thing, higher than your gaze can go. You are incapable of gauging the extent of it, or the depth of it. You are the object of this love of mine; probably even the subject, but whatever, just let it all be. Submit yourself, opportunities such as this one are not newspapers, they won’t land at your door each day. Anyway.

Oh do come closer my dear

And en route shed your fear

Or I’ll do this distance between

It’ll be less Christmas, more Halloween.