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The night rings shivers as if I stood at the epicenter of a stone throw in water and ripples around waved through the goose pimples that stood on edge, ready for more kisses from the air. I sit still, freezing. Its barely cold but the chill can con. There are no arms, there are no alms, there is only a clumsy woolen blanket that shall cover the purpose of the shawl as well as its own name, exactly imitating life, the way you substitute things, emotions, realizations, goals, relations, acceptances and rejections, in a substandard format or category, and you pose and suppose to survive. Then there are those million others, who have their life as better than the best in all those stations I, me or you, moi in summary, are broke. And yet or hence, whichever is more apt, they don’t know what to do with that freedom, thus mis using it.
~ Purvi Petal, 19 Nov 2015

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