Habits are peculiar, nasty things. They are a facade for things you used to love and hate, buried under folds and folds of time, like the layer of dust sitting on your photo frames. And then suddenly, one fine day, we get too familiar with old joys and diamond moments. We chuck them into drawers absent-mindedly. We store them up into boxes stacked up in the attic. We get accustomed to old hurts and wounds, we become cold wolves. That sour and humane ache disappears, we gaze upon our enemy with indifference. The passion and furore is forgotten, ignored and left to expire on the shelf like an old packet of ex-favorite cereal. When did we get used to things? When did we get used to each other?