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Preface

Between life and death a photo finish race will decide the relationship. There was intoxication at heights. Your throat had become hoarsed, sliced after a scream. Matchsticks were thrust in the gnawed mound of kneaded flour. The kitchen was going to explode. Barehands you were picking the black beans; parting me lip by lip caressing me thumb by thumb. Satish Verma

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016




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