People aren't good readers but they read the sadness trapped between the lines of wrinkles like their favourite childhood story. They see the droopy smiles and trembling hands, losing battles and screaming faces until they dig up their backyards and bury the voices there. Soil is a good insulator and isolator or why else don't we hear the graves turning. They grow gardens with their favourite roses and tulips, Jasmine and touch- me-not's, until the feeble voice is eaten up by the byproduct of new beginnings. People are innocent just like that. They turn newspapers as they sip tea , and talk about the cultural divide as their backyards turn into forests of similar opinions and priviliged ignorance. They seek happiness as the voices/vices in their heads lead them towards the roads of destruction as they rob every traveller/hobo off his voice to speak up and scream. They are afraid to ask for help. So they turn the fellow singing wanderers into mute spectators and follow the crowd. People just can't feel isolation as their body lay covered with the soil of their backyards. They carry different muffled voices inside and everytime they speak, they use words like "experience" and "life". People talk about love so often that it withers out like the broken egg shells in their kitchen gardens. Egg shells increase the humus, they reason. They throw love like a stone on this grave of reality and hope to see ripples forming. But all that forms is a barren land of ignored needs to be loved. People are scared to accept their need to be loved. Some spend their entire lives silently wishing for someone to knock at their doors. They sit prepared with tea, biscuits and conversations but when nights pass and no bell rings, they sip the cold tea with tears in their eyes and resentment on their faces. They rush to their backyards then, and dig out those screaming voices they buried long ago. And when they finally listen, someone else starts reading the sadness between the wrinkles of their faces.