Indian raitas pen a lot of naan-fiction. They unfold at a curried paste. I like to sit down in Mahal and read them. I got so engrossed the last time when my mom was leaving the house I didn’t even wish her ‘Mum, bai.’ Lucky she left me a deli sandwich. I Vishnu could read them all, but in India, of these books, they ban galore.

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The metaphor shop was robbed. It was alluding. Nothing simile has happened since. The cops are on the lookout fore shadows.

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