Monday, 3 March 2008
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"He stood with his head still in the phone booth studded with bits of stiff chewing gumand the usual FuckShitCockDickPussyLoveWar, Swastika's, and hearts shot with arrows mingling in a dense grafitti garden, too sugary too angry too perverse - the sick sweet rotting mulch of the human heart." - Kiran Desai, The Inheritance Of Loss
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