All my afternoons are a city of roses when the afternoon leaves bloom. I took the white address of the blue city and announced that I was an unknown traveler. A huge river or a small sea-like island is born every day in the heart of this riverless city. I seek with the intention of being a traveler. Basi Polao survived last night. This is our boarding red blue sickness local bus overloaded fatigue. I want to know if they are ever sad. Question the natural noon concrete wall. Every stroke of the hammer is a regret that feels like a nail is hammered into a plank. This is that the annoyance of a handful of rickshaws can end up being two paise a night at the end of the day. At the end of the evening when these people sleep in a dream like a frustrated spider in a makeshift house in the morning when the light drips like a candle is there a ratti vapsa gal story in the corner of the eye? The two mornings of green color woven into false clothes were quietly finished in the house. An epic poem read under the fading light of our sun.
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