A red stream of light forces its way into the room. It settles against the wall with a certain insistence. I look at it, then at the surrounding darkness, both holding their positions without negotiation. A relationship: contemplation permitted briefly, then reassigned without notice. “Make the morning tea,” he calls. All philosophies, having made a brief and largely ceremonial appearance, excuse themselves; the kettle proceeds to establish a far more practical order.

— Thuds of the emotionally concussed

I proceed with an intention that feels sufficiently clear. The outcome arrives in a form I do not even remotely expect. The intervening steps appear to have been reassigned. A relationship: an order is placed; instead of an expensive book, a set of boxers arrive, the bill showing quiet conviction. “Weren’t you expecting this,” she asks, or tells. I consent to the result as presented; the original intention appears to have been quietly slaughtered.

—  Thuds of the emotionally concussed

The day resembles every other mundane day. The calendar insists otherwise. “Are you not celebrating?” she asks. A relationship: certain days are elevated without discussion, and one learns to comply with the height. A sugar bomb cake is arranged; it keeps me buzzed, like a bee, an expression faintly resembling a smile. The occasion gathers a sense of importance, loosely stitched to the cost incurred.

—  Thuds of the emotionally concussed

In my life, sequence feels like an adopted habit. We were speaking about life, then art, then something slipped. “The salt in the Gobi was a bit less,” she says. A relationship: the script is rewritten during the performance. I nod. An arrangement as natural as idli with Chinese food; I go along with it.

—  Thuds of the emotionally concussed

I stepped on the Pagdandi thinking the world was a flat, predictable surface. The ankle turns like a hinge. Pain is a vertical distance I failed to calculate before the inevitable. A relationship: a cliff masquerading as a gentle, grassy slope. "Did you trip?" she asks, looking at the sky instead of the path. I am horizontal now; the shrubbery is exclusively offering a firm embrace.

— Thuds of the emotionally concussed

The faucet is a silver throat screaming at a temperature called extreame. I offer my palm to it like a bribe, or a small, wet animal. Nerves are slow historians; the regret arrives in a train three hours late. A relationship: a similar arrangement of plumbing and misplaced optimism. "Are you hurt?" she asks, while the skin decides to become a blister. I am looking at the drain; it is the only thing here with a clear exit strategy.

— Thuds of the emotionally concussed