Sunset on last Sunday. Everyday, evening sky stretches across the horizon, replaces the bright shiny firmament with a show of golden cloudy delights that meet the eyes. Same way, same direction resolves everyday course of the luminary bodies as recorded in the ancient text of Enoch. Neither do changes in weather nor tidings of the earthlings could alter course of the heavenly luminary bodies in the sky, forever posing such a tantalizing mystery. As warm as in every summer heat, smells of sweats lingering side by side the acrid urban air, random mild frying soy sauce is drifting from some burning stoves in the food corner, saving senses from all the lucidness of modern city life. As cold as in every winter, though not so cold as in the northern Siberian landscape. Not as colour blinding as the pure whiteness of snow coming down from the frozen air in the far western world, eventhough as so, the misty shrouds of fogs still veil the morning sky, inflicting that coldness is here to stay. In all ways, a picturesque of a changing time renders all reminiscences of the passing of time. No time is lost without its glory, but even one moment does not stand against a lost in a fraction of a second. Being able to sanctify perhaps, just one single moment in my life in rows of hefty words, hoping that every moment stays as good as it can be and that nothing is left unsought if not forsaken in thoughts.