While anticipating a hard rain to fall on the spit feathers of lost time, a forever young bard penned and sang: 'Where black is the colour, where none is the number.' Perhaps, he did it while watching a white man walking a black dog. The subliminal architecture of our precarious time that compartmentalises itself into the inevitable spectrum of human-to-human divides of discrimination —class, caste, colour, sex, or gender— must transform itself into an epitaph of our undoing of the essence of a human being.
