Samsara joins a poetry club

He looked around the table and wondered how this group of losers would transform Nepali literature.

Samsara walked up the stairs to the cafe where the Dead Poets Society was supposed to meet. He had expected a place fancier than this. The stairway was narrow and winding. The walls were yellow with cracks that could be scratched with bare fingers, revealing the white plaster beneath. A stale stench in the air was probably run-off from some restaurant kitchen nearby. Very unpoetic from the likes of it. Still, he’d committed, and he ought to stick with it.