The spirit hovers. I am not interested in a sťance. Let me come face to face with the book to share clean or unclean thoughts. Not able to print my deep angst. A clash of cultures. I will call the unprinted scream. The dismembered limbs begin a dance of unfolding the hate. It was a jig. Of scaffoldings for the peacocks to shed their wings. Everyone was falling for the green-gold to be embossed on the dust cover of life.
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