On a Sunday morning, you run a light svelte carriage into a tree-lined street out in the suburbs with a pair of fleet steeds, their skin glossy. Isn’t there a landscape the exact opposite of this? Under a heavy cloudy sky, a stalled cart. Isn’t there an oppressive landscape where even while the driver gets anxious and exasperated, his rotten horse doesn’t move a bit? Look, thinkers. So many days of ours with depressive weather of the kind where, before a single thought whose content is apt, prepared to go, the words vacillate and hover and don’t move ahead.