It started with the fact that I was on the roof, alone, and I thought what if my whole life goes by and all I have to show for it is broken suitcase. Well, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve leaned on this suitcase with a broken heart and now it is gone. My first response is to wonder whether I can fix it, can I? The rest of it is all there, only the wheel is broken, surely it’s going to be okay. It’s not just a suitcase, it’s the only thing thats been with me for the past few years. I’ve been on the road, on the run, for a while and I don’t want a limping suitcase to slow me down. I have some few precious wonders which make sense, my music, at times my words mostly my family and friends and this purple thing i cart around, which i bought before i started my great adventure. The fact that I don’t make sense to them is just common sense, something that I possess very little of, especially in matters of the heart. In the end, I thought it would be me and this suitcase, two old battered looking things. I thought that the suitcase would be there, my constant, with the rips and marks that chart our time together, making it all real instead of some dizzy hazy nostalgia. And then finally I think of you. After all those years I still think of you, how you can just denounce us, pronounce us. There was never an us, but there was that time when you told me that England was not my home, Pakistan was and that I was yours. How happy I was to renounce my infinity to be your possession, in affinity. That you didn’t want me to go back to him. That you wanted to take things all the way with me. The thing is, I am not just talking about one guy here, you all melt into each other, like one long idea I had about love, the truth is I am on my bed, all dusty from the roof trying to forget all of you.