And he didn't get tired or sleepy, for the beauty burned in him like fire.

Morality does not help me. I am a born antinomian...I see that there is nothing wrong in what one does. I see that there is something wrong in what one becomes.

At the tips of the feathers there is air and at their base: blood. I hold up bones; I wish like broken glass they could court light....still I try to place these pieces back together, to set them firm, to make murdered girls live again.

Why worry? Manipulation of breathing is  the end answer.

Written By Samarendra mohanty

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